Wilco (The Review)

I first discovered Jeff Tweedy way back in the mid-90s, after picking up a copy of Anodyne, the virtually perfect album by alt-country godfathers Uncle Tupelo. I had no idea that the group had already broken up and formed two equally important bands, Son Volt and Wilco. I remember a lot of acrimonious debate over which group would carry the alt-country banner, but after hearing each band's debut album (Son Volt's Trace and Wilco's A.M.), I didn't much care. In my book, both efforts were rock solid then, and they still sound every bit as good today.

But then something happened. Son Volt drifted into repetitive mediocrity, and Wilco got increasingly weirder. Being There was definitely a departure from their roots, but it was still a great effort. Mermaid Avenue felt mostly like a dalliance to me, but every group is entitled to one of those, I supposed. Summerteeth was a bit spacier, but still poppy and approachable. Mermaid II was totally forgettable, and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot careened between dissonant ear-bleeding chords and pointless, self-indulgent noodling. After a sample listening of A Ghost Is Born, I parted ways with Tweedy & Co.

Jeff Tweedy as brooding, egotistical savant is well documented, so there's no point in going into it here. But last Sunday, I read Timothy Finn's well-written feature on Wilco, and I got excited about today's new effort, Wilco (The Album).

Thankfully, and somewhat surprisingly, I'm not disappointed. Wilco is fun again! It starts off amusingly, with the curiously titled "Wilco (the song)." What other band can you name that has there own theme song? The Monkees? No matter... it works, and works well. Then there's "You Never Know," a charming, happy song that's also a dead ringer for George Harrison's My Sweet Lord. (I can almost hear it playing over KRGI-AM in Dad's Buick Skylark in the mid-70s.) And "Sonny Feeling" fits the tried-and-true Wilco formula -- frame some angst and dread in an upbeat, toe-tapping melody.

It feels good to be a Wilco fan again.

Obituary Overload

There's nothing like a bunch of punchlines dying to put you on notice, is there? Even as I write this, on the breezy confines of the Casa Scampwalker veranda, there are sirens -- a damned lot of sirens -- going hopefully to save some poor unknown bastard from the icy clutches of death.

But none of us escape it, do we? We make light of it -- mock it, really:

Farrah Fawcett goes to heaven. God grants her one wish. Farrah says, "Please take care of my children, and keep them from harm." So God strikes down Michael Jackson.

They say death comes in threes. Leave it to Billy Mays to throw himself in for free.

If God punishes us for whistling through the graveyard and making light of death, I'm a dead man bound for hell. But this recent spate of high-profile dirt naps has everyone thinking, doesn't it? How will the world remember you? Will you even be remembered? What's it all about?

Will you be remembered as the faithful, background sidekick like Ed McMahon? I'm still of the age that I remember Ed... always there... always quick with a laugh or a rejoinder (YES!) if Johnny's gag fell flat.

Do you hope to be eulogized like Farrah Fawcett, the bombshell that everyone wanted to be (or just plain wanted)? And though I never really paid attention at the time, she was by almost all accounts a good actress and fought a courageous fight against a horrible cancer.

Or are you going to be like Michael Jackson -- who somehow came to represent both the best and worst in humanity?

Hell, even Billy Mays, that (somewhat) lovable, loudmouthed huckster got his ticket punched. At least he knew what his life was supposed to be, and he lived it well.

But the death that brought it home for me was Marianne Stovall. She was an administrative assistant of mine back in a previous life, and she was only 58 -- but cancer doesn't care much about age, I guess.

Thankfully, I don't have a clue about when or how I'll die, and I'm not entirely sure what, if anything, people will remember about me. But I know I'm more attuned to it today than I was a week ago. And for that, I can thank Ed, Farrah, Michael, Billy, and Marianne. Godspeed. All of us.

Airsoft: This Ain't Your Daddy's Red Ryder Daisy BB Gun

For my son's nine-year-old birthday, I bought him (me) an automatic weapon. Before the Brady Bunch nuts get their panties in a bunch, it's not what you think. It's airsoft. And it's what I know I would have wanted back when I was in short pants.

I first learned of airsoft back at SHOT Show a couple of years ago, and I thought it was a bit goofy... grown men with plastic replicas of military weapons, having it out with one another, a la paintball. And I suppose you could do it that way.

Not us. My son has learned more about gun safety in the last month than I learned in a year. Seriously. He loves it because it looks cool, and it's full auto. You'd think the kid would be spraying pellets nonstop with a full auto M4, but without any coaching at all, he's very conservative with his shot placement. I think it's because I told him he was buying the next 5,000 rounds (15 to 20 bucks). Hell, with the price of ammo these days, why NOT shoot airsoft plastic pellets??

I'm amazed at how conscientious he is with gun safety... mostly because he knows that if he screws up, the gun gets put away (and it never has been, by the way). And even though airsoft can be dangerous, compared to a brass BB, it's slower traveling, and isn't packing the same amount of critter-killing joules that the BBs and pellets we grew up with. And I feel a lot safer shooting it in the backyard than something that spews ricocheting metal.

Anyhow, I'm a big fan. It's brought me and my son closer together, and it's one helluva squirrel, rabbit, and ground squirrel deterrent for the vegetable garden. Plus, they're damned fun. And let's face it... full auto kicks ass. I don't care who you are.

Urban Photo Safari: Life in the Viewfinder

Every year, a buddy of mine from work goes to great lengths to host Urban Photo Safari. The idea is a simple one, but supremely cool. Grab your digital camera, and go out and take cool pictures for four hours. Bring them back, upload them all to a central location, and then be "peer reviewed" by other participants. The winner gets... I dunno, I think some sort of gift certificate... but most importantly, they receive adulation (and envy) of his/her peers. (The winning photo is featured in this post.)

In all honesty, the competition is really ancillary. What's fun is getting up, grabbing a nice espresso from Homer's, and finding interesting places to go to take pictures. We hit the Overland Park farmer's market, Whole Foods, Bichelmeyer Meats, Dressler's Dog Supply, a random swap-n-shop, and Merriam Feed Lawn & Garden Center. (Do you detect a trend here? Food and dogs dominate my life.)

Anyhow, all locations were target-rich photo environments (like, um, a meat locker with 40 head of pigs and cattle hanging from meathooks??). And this year, we gave each kid a digital camera and THEY took the pictures. It was cool too see the world through the eyes of the kids (I'm assuming their real eyesight isn't as blurred as their photosight). And it was even cooler to see the eyes through 40-some friends, co-workers, and total strangers that took part in UPS.

If you live in the KC area, I strongly encourage you to participate next year. If you don't live around here, check out the gallery anyhow. It's proof there's some mighty talented shutterbugs in our midst. You might be one, too.

Father's Day with the Big Chief

I've been a smoker for about as long as I can remember. In fact, my dad taught me the basics of smoking back when I was probably my son's age (nine). So, in observance of Father's Day, I figured it was only fitting that I fired up my new Big Chief smoker to make a family favorite -- beef jerky.

This recipe I found in while I lived in Atlanta, in American Game Cooking, a cookbook that a buddy gave me. Newly married and living in a small apartment, we didn't have a smoker, so I made it in the oven with great results. But nothing beats the flavor and depth of a piece of red meat done in a Luhr Jensen smoker. Actually, they're no longer labeled as Luhr Jensen smokers (yes, the lure company), but are now branded as Smokehouse.

No matter, it's the same exact device as it was 35 years ago. They're simple contraptions... a riveted aluminum box, layered with wire racks, and a pan that rests on an electric heating element. They're damned reliable, too. My dad gave me his Little Chief smoker nearly 10 years ago, and it worked admirably until last fall, when it finally bit the dust. That's 35 years of jerky and chickens in one little machine. So when the time came to replace it, I figured I ought to stick with this little silver wonderbox. Here's the recipe.

2-3 lbs. lean beef roast (I typically use a rump roast. Venison, duck, sharptails, and woodcock also work quite well)

1/3 cup dry sherry

1/2 cup soy sauce

1/3 cup chicken or beef stock

3 tbs rice wine vinegar

1 tbs brown sugar

2 tsp chopped ginger

2 minced garlic cloves

2 tsp black pepper

Sriracha or Tabasco to taste

Put the roast in the freezer for at least an hour. Partial freezing makes it much easier to cut thinly. Combine all ingredients except for the meat, and bring to a boil. Once it boils for a minute or two, remove from the heat and allow to cool. Trim any fat from the exterior of the roast (fat can turn rancid even after smoking). Slice the meat thinly -- 1/8 inch is about right -- but consistency is more important than thickness. If some pieces are thin and others thick, half your batch will either be overcooked or undercooked. Brine the meat in the fridge overnight, for at least 12 hours. Lay the pieces on the smoker's racks, ensuring that pieces don't touch. Doneness is really a matter of knowing your smoker. Dad's Little Chief took 10 or 12 hours, but the new Big Chief only takes about five. Let it cool, and store in the fridge in a ziploc bag. I'm not sure what the shelf life is -- it's always been eaten within a couple of days.

Like many of my recipes, this one is served best with beer. You can take it anywhere with you, but it's particularly tasty after a hard day of hunting, eaten while sitting on a tailgate with a Boulevard Stout, sharing the day's memories with a good hunting buddy -- like my dad.

Garden & Gun: Get It

Here's a mashup for you...

Take equal parts of Southern Living, Texas Monthly, Gray's Sporting Journal, and a chicken-fried version of the New Yorker, and what do you get? You get Garden and Gun, one of the few magazines I look forward to reading cover to cover, every single month that I've been fortunate enough to receive it.

To the uninitiated (or uncouth), it seems like an unlikely combo... I get laughs when people see it proudly layed out on my desk. But once they crack it open (hoping to mock me), they begin to understand that this little book is not about begonias and .44 magnums.

It's a "lifestyle" magazine, to be sure. But I invariably cringe at that word... I mean, what asshat out there describes himself as leading a "southern lifestyle" -- or ANY lifestyle?!?!? That's a word for no-talent, just-out-of-school marketing punks that have no, well, lifestyle of their own. Anyhoo, I digress.

Back to Garden and Gun. Please tell me what other magazine you know of that has the editorial stable of Sid Evans (EIC) and David DiBenedetto (ED), along with contributing editors like Roy Blount, Jr., Pat Conroy, Rick Bragg, and Winston Groom? (If you don't know them, shame on you. Google them first (see?) then buy the damned magazine already.) Add to that some of the best outdoor writers plying their trade on a freelance basis (see Phil Bourjaily and Eddie Nickens) and this magazine is a sure bet.

Of course, no magazine is a sure bet these days. In fact, thanks, to the recession and corporate ad slashing, most mags are thinner than double-ply asswipe these days. G&G is hanging in there, and you need to know about it. Get a subscription. Buy it on a newsstand or during a layover. At the very least, visit their blogs. Trust me, pal... this day and age, we could all use some old-school southern sense.

Frozen in Time

I remember the first time I saw a movie at the drive-in like it was yesterday. Mom and Dad took us to Rocky way back in 1976. I remember being somewhat in awe of the technology, the magnitude of the screen, and the myriad teenagers primping and posturing. Being dark, there was also an element of danger, too, for this wide-eyed second grader. I remember getting to eat popcorn -- outside of the Oldsmobile, mind you, since Dad didn't want crumbs in the car. I don't remember much about the flick that night, but I can't think about Rocky Balboa without thinking about the Grand Island Twin Theater.

Whenever I mention the drive-in to anyone close to my age, they perk up and share with me what is essentially the same story. It's amazing how well kids remember that experience. Of course, drive-ins are now pretty much an anachronism, given way to VHS, Betamax, HBO, DVD, high-speed internet and Netflix. In fact, they mostly died out before I reached driving age -- the age at which two or more hours in the dark with a girlfriend could have been even more fun.

Saturday night, we took our kids to the drive-in to see Night At The Museum II. Most people in KC are surprised that such a place exists -- but I'm happy to report the Boulevard Drive-In is alive and well. We backed the Ram into our spot, and put out a couple of chairs for the kids on this uncommonly chilly June evening, while Mrs. Scampwalker and I sat on the tailgate. We bought some treats from the grocery store, and even sipped a couple of Schlitz longnecks (the 70's era seemed fitting, and they were surprisingly tasty). The place wasn't packed, but it was still full of families of every size, color, and socioeconomic status, with vehicles to match (pickups, minivans, and SUV's seemed to be the most popular varieties).

The movie was just OK (it was a sequel after all), but the experience was first-rate. I'll be curious to find out if my kids will remember Ben Stiller the way I remember Sylvester Stallone.