The race had a ceremonial start in Anchorage today. Mushers and "Iditariders" went about 10 miles through downtown Anchorage and out into the woods on ski and bike trails.
About 15,000 people came out to watch the mushers live and tens of thousands more watched it live on Alaskan TV.
No one kept track of times today because it didn't really count.
The real race begins tomorrow in Willow (about 70 miles away) and the winner will likely arrive in Nome 9 or 10 days later.
At the risk of being rude, can you think of a rock 'n' roller less athletic than Lou Reed?
And at the risk of being snarky, wouldn't Lou Reed's perfect day feature a lot less snowboarding and a lot more heroin?
And at the risk of being overly obvious -- isn't this a crappy commercial because nearly everyone remembers it but almost no one remembers what it's supposed to be advertising?
We'd spent hours loading heavy equipment from a visiting band off of a huge truck and out onto the field. Monitors. Amplifiers. All manner of electrical devices.
And now the band was playing, holding back their single hit to try to force the gathered college kids to bring them back for an encore.
And when they played the hit. And she got up to dance and sing along. And the irony was that I'd introduced her to the band. Then layer that irony with the fact that her life was an exact opposite of the lyrics she was singing along to.
A friend grabbed my shoulder.
"Don't take it personally."
"It's hard not to. It was just a few months ago."
"You know she's never gone more than 10 days without a boyfriend. Ten days since she was 14."
"I know."
"And you didn't think you two would stay together. Did you?"
"I did."
"Well then you're an idiot."
And I watched her dance. And had to agree.
My friend paused, then said. "It's a reflection on her, not on you."
I knew that then. And I know it now. And yet... she was dancing with some guy who wasn't me.
And my friend said "Plus, she dances like a spazz."
True enough. "I just wish she hadn't done that. So soon."
"Ten days, dude. Since she was 14. It has nothing to do with you."
I must have known that deep down. But I wanted to believe something different. Or maybe I just wanted to be the guy on the hill dancing and not the guy who'd seen how burned out and bored the band was backstage and would have to load tons of equipment back onto the truck so they could travel the next night to Maine. Or Virginia. Or some other place where the girls sway like spazzes and sing along to love songs they could never live up to. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
I don't know what it is about dreams. They sneak up on you, torpedo you with anxiety and hopes, then drag you across the cluttered floor of your subconscious.
And why are the scariest dreams the ones that sound the most benign and mundane when you describe them?
The other night, I dreamed I was in a meeting about a project. I don't remember what the project was, but in the dream I was very excited about it.
And I came out of the meeting, which was in an old duplex house with curved doorways and dark grey adobe stones.
And I looked into the other unit of the duplex -- which was a mirror image of the one I'd come from -- only the walls were painted a deep, rich ocean blue. Then I saw her.
And she said she was surprised to see me. So I mumbled something about the meeting. Then she said "I didn't think I was allowed to talk to you." Which is weird because I thought I wasn't allowed to talk to her.
And it's been many, many years since I've seen her. But she got into my blood like a virus and I'm still not sure I have all the antibodies I need.
So we talked and the party she was at swirled around us. She was selfish and sad and her life was one long emergency. But I loved her then more than either of us could understand. And being back in her presence, even if just for a moment, even if just in a dream, was intoxicating. And very, very, very sad.
And as we talked, I realized she was in danger. If she went to Hungary she would die. And the thought froze me, terrified me. And I let myself think for a moment about what that would mean if she died... and whether that would make her finally vacate that chunk of real estate in my brain she's occupied (without signing a lease or even paying her share of the utilities) for so long.
I must have gotten quiet, because she suddenly grabbed my arm and looked me in the eyes. "Why did you come here?" she asked.
But I'm not Bruce Springsteen. Hell, on my best days I'm barely Manfred Mann.
So I didn't tell her. But I did say "don't go to Hungary." Her smile turned confused, gradually fading. (Even when I'm wide awake, it lingers behind her, leaving the hint of her essence.)
And then, though it took every ounce of effort I had, I got up and I left.
If I hadn't actually seen this in a store, I'd assume it was a joke.
Okay, I get it that Americans have taken lazy to a whole new level with the Snuggie. Not only do you not have to get off the couch, you don't even have to expend the effort needed to take your hands out from under the blanket.
What I don't understand is this (sadly) real product:
I guess some people won't be happy until their dogs are as lazy as they are...
Climbing high up the mountain of love -- or any other place I must go...
Holly Hughes has a damn fine blog called The Song in My Head Today. In the past, she's rhapsodized about Paul McCartney, Marshall Crenshaw, the Kinks (including an entire month where she reviewed their catalog in chronological order), and Nick Lowe. But mostly what she does is talk about a song that's stuck in her head and dissect the music and what it means to her. Great stuff.
Lately, Holly's been counting down her list of Top 100 Singles of All Time (5 per post) and she's about halfway through. That's great for reading about those Top 100 Singles, but makes me miss that "Song in My Head Today" feel.
So today, (since she's not using it right now) I'm stealing um hijacking um borrowing the entire underlying concept of her blog.
Somewhere in the universe, there's a party that goes on forever. And the Fleshtones are the house band.
Like General Zod trapped in the Phantom Zone (reference too obscure? watch a few seconds of this), this Phantom Zone of Fun slices through our three-dimensional reality, suddenly blinking into existence from out of nowhere.
"Hexbreaker" fades up like it's always been playing but we just couldn't hear it before. The song seems simultaneously fresh and dated. And yeah, "Hexbreaker" came out in 1983, when handclaps and drumbeats were sampled and played from keyboards -- and even Springsteen was dipping his Jersey Toe into the murky synth waters. But these are real hands clapping (not quite in unison) and a real drummer playing (not always exactly on the beat). It sounds human -- sometimes sloppy, always delightful. These guys seem like they're stuck in 1957 or 1965, not like they're contemporaries of the Human League or Talking Heads.
And it builds slowly. The call-and-response vocals have that frat-party everyone-shout-along quality. The sax sizzles, promising something dirty and sexy and vaguely forbidden. It's a perfect match for the raspy vocal style of Pete Zaremba. And the words channel bad hoodoo, love gone horribly wrong, and the promises of the magical talisman that has always been rock 'n' roll.
"Wait a minute," he says. "Are you ready for a SuperRock time?" And in this alternate universe, in the Phantom Zone of Fun, we're all ready. But he makes us wait, letting Keith Streng's guitar chug-chug-chug us forward, building and churning.
The cars whizz past (bottles will break) People shout (how much can we take?) Just keep calm (what more can we say?) Because we always stay cool -- we like it that way.
And as the song builds, we wonder who (or what) is the Hexbreaker? And what hex needs to be broken anyway? Then we realize -- it's everything. And the song, drenched in echo, drips with the sweat of 100 revelers crowding the dance floor.
In all matters of money and love, the band promises, the Hexbreaker's power is strong. This is primal stuff -- and if you've ever believed that rock 'n' roll can save your life or redeem your soul, you'll want to tap into this kegger and drink deep from the heady brew they serve in the Phantom Zone of Fun.
But just as we're getting somewhere, the song starts to drift away. The band is floating off to another galaxy and we can't go with them. Clearly this song goes on forever, but just intersects our sonic plane of existence for 4 short minutes.
And maybe that's why this song sounds as fresh, vital, and elusive now as it did a quarter century ago. Whatever the reason, it makes me want to dance (and that almost never happens) and get up and join the party, traveling the universe to spread the joyous gospel of the SuperRock sound of the Fleshtones.
And that, with apologies to Holly Hughes, is why "Hexbreaker" is the song in my head today.
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