spring and all

Spring is here, and that calls for some new music, haiku, photos, anecdotes and updates about some of the tumultuous events sweeping the region.

The end of March was a catacylsmic time for people on either side of State Line. The week opened with this story about two men in Kansas City who drove around in an ice cream truck shooting at people. My fellow blogger Mabel and I thought this would be the ice cream pun-prone story that would catapault us to blogging superstardom, but after mentally running through all the requisite David Lee Roth, "I scream/you scream/we all scream for ice cream" and "Pop Goes The Weasel" jokes, we realized that, geez, guys with guns driving around in an ice cream van is actually sort of terrifying. But please don't let that stop you from chiming in with any jokes of your own.

On Wednesday night I thought I saw someone cruising through the QuikTrip parking lot on a wheelchair built of spare parts from my stolen bicycle, but my eyes were playing tricks on me.

In perhaps the strangest local news story I have read all week, government biologists have been trying to eliminate the feral pig problem by flying over Clinton Lake and gunning the disease-spreading animals down from their helicopter. So far this year, a statewide total of 257 hogs were killed by air and 75 were trapped and killed. If you thought the police presence was bad for Wakarusa Fest, put yourself in these animals' shoes. At the end of the news story, which also features a video, a man who lives near the lake mentions that there is still one 500-pound boar on the loose.

"Most of these are ugly as sin but somehow I'd say this has gotten to be kind of a pretty one," he said.

No matter how disruptive these boars may be to the area, the aerial swineicide taking place in my home state has inspired me to head out to Clinton to hold a special vigil. This will take place next weekend at the half-submerged picnic table just downhill from the outlook point, and will probably consist of some banjo-strumming, frisbee-tossing, and maybe the ceremonial lighting of a stundenbrenner.

Today's last tribute to the piggies comes to us in the form of a song by a renowned British pop group. No, it's not off the White Album, it's the Suede single Where The Pigs Don't Fly from their b-side collection, Sci-Fi Lullabies. It's sort of a spaced-out Brit-pop answer to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow." And if you listen to the lyrics closely, you'll find a reference to a stolen ice cream van.

Born to Adagio

On a cultural note, Jennifer and I went to the Kansas City Symphony last weekend for a performance of Mahler's Fifth. The performance, conducted by Isaac Stern's son Michael, was even more splendid than we expected. It's always a thrill to watch the musicians play, especially one of the first violinists, who was great with child. After Jennifer pointed this out to me, I said "Wouldn't it be neat if the lady gave birth in the middle of the performance -- and not just that -- what if the baby was born with a Suzuki violin in its hand and arrived just in time to play along with the Rondo Finale (in D major)?" I, of course, was greatly amused with this hypothetical scenario, but Jennifer found it distasteful, and in the end we both agreed it was unlikely.

Big Star, even Bigger Toad

Just because I have a keen appreciation for high culture, I don't want you all to think I've given up on the rock and roll. In fact, if you show up in a few hours to the Eight Street Taproom, you might catch me headbanging and playing harp along with the great pop-rock outfit Ghosty, who is doing a Big Star tribute tonight. If you can't go then, go see them play as themselves tomorrow at the Record Bar. And if you happen to work for a major label, you should sign them up and send them to Australia, where the World's Largest Toad has requested they perform as part of his "Check Me Out I'm A Frog The Size of a Dog" festival this summer.

Songs for Spring

In honor of the recent equinox and the official arrival of spring, here are a few songs to sweep you sweetly into a spring fever.

-- Spring Is Here by Dave Longstreth of the Dirty Projectors
-- The Seasons Reverse, by Gastr del Sol, which was Jim O'Rourke and David Grubbs. The other favorite tune on this 1998 album, Camoufleur, is the last one, Bauchredner
-- If you like Jim O'Rourke's fingerstyle playing, you'll certainly appreciate John Fahey's "When The Springtime Comes Again," a lovely instrumental number from his 1963 album, "Death Chants, Breakdowns and Military Waltzes."
-- Finally, no rainy season would be complete without at least one listen from the Marmalade classic, "I See The Rain," which even Jimi himself greatly enjoyed.

Hoops sorrow, and the heroic scooter scramble of Tim and Stepp

Oh, yes. In my spirited embrace of spring, I don't want to pretend last Saturday's b-ball heartbreak didn't happen. I watched the game in Lawrence, and the atmosphere following the elite eight loss could probably best be described as volatile. People were ready to party, and although they didn't feel like it anymore, they still decided to drink. My brothers Peter, David, Jenny (bros), Jacob and Sam Stepp decided to seek comfort and food at Rudy's Pizza, where we cashed-in the Wetzel discount for some Guiness and Beef-and-Sausage slices. The effect was an immediate rise to our spirits, and we convinced our friend Tim to drive his scooter up and down Mass. Street with Stepp sitting on the back, proudly waving his giant new KU flag. It was heroic, and inspiring, kind of like the end of Braveheart.

Speaking of heroic endings, I'm going to sign off now with some nice little Haikus for yous

spring is the season
when I'm hit by a monsoon
with waves of haiku

Vernal equinox
vestal virgins balance eggs
on their countertops

out in the country
hidden highways one can find
only by lightning

a secret clubhouse
like something from a children's
paperback novel

swinging singing chains
the green fuse is drunk-driving
Dylan's golden age

the moon is waxing
blooming dogwoods thought patterns
brightly develop

Elliot asks us
Is April the cruellest month?
maybe for Jesus

she went far away
she went to be with the whales
summer, she returns

Apollinaire says
springtime causes unfaithul
lovers to wander

The Jayhawks wonder
how long must March Madness last?
wait another year

Long must you suffer, Cyclops

photo from Patras, Greece circa 2005

It's hard to know what makes for an entertaining blog post, but at least one reader has requested something involving history and myth. Fortunately, I'm an armchair expert on mythological monsters, so I think it's about time I shared another view on the life and times of history's most famous cyclops, Polyphemus.

I recently reread the Polyphemus entry in Edith Hamilton's "Mythology" and found it full of several fascinating anecdotes about Poseidon's one-eyed son. My favorite of these accounts are the ones that portray him as a victim of circumstance, "not terrifying at all, but a poor credulous monster, a most ridiculous monster."

The basic story of the Cylops is that Odysseus and his men land on his island in search of supplies, only to wind up trapped in the monster's cave. After several of them are eaten, Odysseus hatches a plan to get the Cyclops drunk, poke out its eye and sneak out with his men by concealing themselves underneath his sheep.

However, in a new version of events not found in Hamilton's collection (one that perhaps was dreamed up by me during an Aegean ferry ride), the Cyclops is not blinded by Odysseus's men, he just gets drunk and loses his contact lens.

No sooner does he begin looking for his missing lens then Odysseus's men begin playing frisbee with it, skipping it across rock and surf. This really pisses off Poseidon, who like all sons of Cronus, hates being pissed off. In exchange for the attentions of a nymph, he hires Zeus to give his sight-challenged son emergency LASEK surgery with a special phototherapeutic thunderbolt.

Once the Cyclops acquires perfect vision, he does what any enraged monster would do: he bites off the heads of the offending mortals. This would usually be horrible and not-funny, except that in this version of events, the men of the Odyssey all happen to be decked out in anachronistic 1950s black and white striped bathing suits, lending the scene an air of aesthetic comedy.

But as satisfying as it is for a few mouthfuls, snacking on the sailors like so much celery loses it's appeal when Polyphemus realizes no sea nymph will ever love him if he continues to behave so barbarously. The cyclops, in fact, has more class than most poets give him credit for. And if he reacted in blind rage, well, he can't really be blamed.

Such is the life of a lesser deity. Your radiant parents watch your back, but they never invite you out to eat on Olympus. Still, Polyphemus does his best to hold things down on his island, which in many later stories was Sicily.

It is said that after an emotional breakup, Polyphemus recorded an album of love tunes for his neglectful nymph. But because this was before Gods were allowed to own their own record labels, it is thought that only a few bootlegged tapes survived. Perhaps they will one day be discovered and the Cyclops will take his place on top of the singer/songwriter pantheon, but most scholars believe this is unlikely.

Until then, he will neither be loved, nor famous. He will only remain Polyphemus.

save the planet/kill your blog

I relocated this rant about the state of MySpace/the blogosphere to a more appropriate location.

Thursday tracks: Here Come The Hawks, White Flight, feral camels and more

Hawk It To 'Em
Welcome to a special late-breaking edition of Thursday tracks, which will be enhanced with a couple of quick news items. Our first song is an explosive and especially timely number called "Hawk It To 'Em," brought to us courtesy of international journalist/DJ extraordinaire, Sam Hopkins. Sam found this 45 and did a write-up of it for Wax Poetics. This highly limited release by The Tips (backed by Gary Jackson and the Soul Messengers) was recorded to commemorate KU's 1969 Rose Bowl appearance, which they lost as a result of having too many men on the field. Thanks to Balagan for this fine find, which fans of soul music and KU athletics will delight in hearing. Here Come the Hawks, Y'all...!


Dirty Projectors
Monday night I went to the Record Bar to see one of my favorite groups of the past few years, The Dirty Projectors. I first heard the song "Lay Down Restless Bones" on my friend Andrew's annual mix CD. This beautiful, stirring and primitive tune from lead Projector Dave Longstreth's solo album led me to other songs such as this one called "Winter Is Here." Monday's performance by the band was excellent, if a bit short. Dave's caterwauling vocals and left-handed strat were backed up by two young women on bass/vocals and guitar/vocals, as well as a drummer of Deerhoovian ability. I bought a couple of EPs of theirs on vinyl, and they were kind enough to throw in the New Attidudes CD as well, which features this track.

I Could Never Fight A Cat Like That
Last but not least of today's musical offerings is this video from "White Flight." Not only am I a big fan of the White Flight record (more of which can be heard on www.rangeliferecords.com), this video was filmed at my girlfriend's house a month before she moved in. In fact, the scene when the guy meets the cat and decides to rescue it from the white hipster kids (one of whom appears to be Richie Tenenbaum) is filmed in her room. So if somebody asked me today, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" I would have to answer: "In the purple-blacklit den of the cosmic kittie, of course."

A quick note about the White Flight record: Fuck what Pitchforkmedia says, it's a damn interesting listen. And while I'm on that subject of Pitchfork, I'd like to send out a friendly "fuck you" to those self-appointed arbiters of taste. I was going to write up an angry response to the White Flight review, but my feelings on the matter are best summed up in a quote from Kansas City DJ/Oxblood Records founder Robert Moore, who said this in an article last year in Lawrence.com:

“I could give a damn...they’re like nerds with attitudes. Who the hell gives them the power to make or break a record? The public has given them the power which just shows how a bunch of sheep are out there... Naah, Pitchfork is a bunch of shit.”

Now I'm not going to pretend I haven't enjoyed reading Pitchfork at times, or that I haven't been clued in to some good releases there. Pitchfork writers, including a friend or two of mine, are generally genuine fans of music who are able to digest and write about a staggering amount of bands every month. But when it comes to number ratings and evaluations of whether an album is valid or not, I don't trust them any more than I'd trust any asshole from Chicago.

Non music-related news:

Good question, postcard. The answer: not me. A severe drought in Australia has led to attacks on villages and aborigines by feral camels. Although the brunt of their attacks have been borne by inanimate objects such as toilets and air conditioners, their frequency and ferocity have led to calls by the government for a culling (a softer word for "killing") of feral camels, which there are over a million of in the country. At least one news story I read reported that camel hunters have been assigned to kill no less than 100 camels each week. So if any of you don't have spring break plans and really need an opportunity to satisfy your bloodlust, this could be a real opportunity for you.

Finally, here's a foto of me descending the banks of the Kaw to check out a sunken automobile I found there while chasing an errant frisbee toss yesterday. It is thought that the car might be a rusted-out Studebaker that was pushed into the river somewhere near Manhattan by my car-collecting ancestors, but I'm not for sure.


Photo, as usual, by Jenny.

Behind Every Good Woman There are Two Good Elves

A happier, more fantasiatic subject for Tuesday's drawing of the day.

foto of the weekend

by natalya

thursday tracks: song for aretha (and more)

There is a woman
Who brings...ahh, yes
Love and laughter
whenever she sings
to the people
standing beneath her
yes...
she gives strength to the weak
whenever
WHENEVER
she speaks
and her name
her name
her NAME
is Aretha
Aretha
ARETHA!

--from Bernard "Pretty" Purdie's "Song for Aretha," taken from his album "Soul Is...Pretty Purdie." To visit an online groove workshop and learn how to play the Purdie Shuffle from the man himself, check out this video tutorial.


As an alternative track of the week, try out Santo & Johnny's version of "Summertime." I listened to this on my headphones while walking by the new addition to the Nelson, which as usual looked fantastic at night. An appropriate tune for the setting, as the Bloch Building opens this summer. June 9, to be exact.

Finally, I posted about 10 new songs on the lukebox today. Click on the "direct download" link for each song and you should be able to stream them. Have a good Thursday and enjoy the tracks.

Public Service Announcement

I always enjoy posting writing by my friends, but what I want to share today is unfortunately much more serious than what you'll usually read here. Over a year ago, my friend Michael was responsible for a drunk-driving accident on State Line that resulted in the death of a motorcyclist. Mike and I grew up together, and I wouldn't have expected this to happen to him any more than I would expect it to happen to me. It was terrible seeing him on the news last year and to think about what he and his family must be going through. But Mike's dealt with it admirably, and this letter he wrote has been circulating recently. It's a message you've probably heard before, but for me, hearing Mike tell it hits especially close to home. Read it here.

the (mock) bloggicide of Lukas Wetzel

Right now I'm sitting at a table in the back of Bo Ling's Chinese Restaurant, alternately sipping from a purple taro milk bubble tea and a variety of colorful cocktails in big paper-umbrella-covered glasses. In front of me sits a giant platter of fortune cookies. One by one, I remove the cookies from their wrappers and eat them, without even bothering to remove the fortunes. As I do so, I look back on my career so far as a writer, blogger, and sufferer of much heartbreak and adventure...

There comes a time in every blogger's life when he must ask himself if he wishes to continue blogging. Few blogs these days survive their infancy, and a fitting epitath for many a blog might be, "No sooner am I done for/I wonder what I was begun for."

My own baby steps in the blogosphere were well-intentioned. I wanted to have fun, tell a few stories, show off some of my girlfriend's photographs and maybe share a song or two. But my path strayed into stagnation, schizophrenia and awkward silences, and a lack of comments spelled out a virtual vote of no confidence on behalf of my (imaginary?) readership.

To make matters worse, my friends' blogs began dying out, and I felt like my namesake Mr. Skywalker on Ice Planet Hoth, stumbling about half-blind on a cold and uncaring planet. Only instead of Hoth's wampas and tauntauns, a different set of predators thrives on the Internet. Unmanned spambots and porn drones patroll the premises, and celebrity smut-peddlers sell soul in exchange for advertising space. Honesty is a liability, and you never know for sure who is watching you.

These are hardly conditions to live in, much less a place to get any real writing done. But to be perfectly honest, I never intended for this blog to outlive my 25th year. As some of you may have noticed, the title of this site is a nod to Goethe's "The Sufferings of Young Werther," the 18th-century epistolary novel in which an overromantic hero does himself in when the girl he loves gets betrothed to some other guy. I figured that, because Goethe published this book when he was 25, I would bury my own Web log sufferings at the same age.

But as uncomfortable as I've grown in this online space, I can still remember what made blogging fun in the first place. You can write about whatever you want, you can make up your own rules, and you might even reach someone. So before I blow the brains out of "The Recently Updated Sufferings of Young Wetzel," I would like to bequeath a few tips to any aspiring bloggers out there who want to give this form of communication a try.

Have Fun With It
Otherwise there's no point

Don't Take It Too Seriously
Why should you?

Keep It Short
Never was my strong point, though I've come to see how brevity probably best suits this format. As my friend Mabel once said, "Sometimes I'll have 10 minutes at work and want to read something fun, so I'll swing by your page only to see some 12,000 word essay on godknowswhat, and I think...this isn't really what I'm looking for right now."

Take into consideration that blogs are publicly accessible (but don't let that cramp your style too much)
A anonymous, or semi-anonymous author credit is not a bad idea. And you obviously don't want to boast too much about doing drugs or committing crimes that might be traceable to your IP address. But don't be overwhelmed by the thought that you're putting stuff out there "for the whole world to see." Because that's actually pretty unlikely.

Be Consistent/Have a Plan
It's easier to maintain a blog, and often more satisfying for readers, if your blog has a consistent theme. My favorite blogs have been written by friends who are traveling, teaching abroad, or writing about a specific thing or place. Personally, I'm all about the variety blog, but with endless possibilities of what to write about, it can be hard to know where to start. Perhaps the most important thing, however, is to be sort-of regular about updating. Because we all need sites to check when our e-mail boxes our empty.

Don't Blog At the Expense of other writing
I found blogging to be a good way to keep my pen sharp and show off a couple of shorter pieces. But I've also noticed that sometimes the more I blog, the more erratic and sporadic my other writing projects become, which is unfortunate. Keeping a blog may feel like you're getting writing done, but it's not always easy to tell if you're making progress, or if it's just blogress.

Don't Blog At the Expense of your Life
Being out in the world, on the town, or with friends is ultimately more satisfying and will give you something to write about later.

Take it or leave it, but these are just a few things that I learned along the way. The most important one to keep in mind is to not take blogging too seriously or get sad if not that many people are commenting on your posts. The blogs that get the most hits are usually the anonymous confessions of some teenage call-girl in a faraway city, which get a million page views and a huge book deal before it's revealed that the person writing it is actually a middle-aged dude across town. Smut is hard to compete with for the public's attention, so don't even try.


I always tried to write as clearly as I could, to make it seem like there was a real person on the other end of the interface. On my better days, I felt like this guy; a display stand of sweets and a bringer of treats/smiles to help people's days along.

Other times, I didn't even know why I was blogging except to show off and call attention to myself.


But none of this matters now...

I slurp up the last of my soup and give the waiter the pre-arranged signal. He nods, walks over to the table and sets beside me a silver dish with a revolver concealed under a red silk napkin. I wave the waiter away without lifting my gaze from the table and set about eating one last fortune cookie. Only as I'm crunching on it, a bitter taste forces me to spit out the cardboard-tasting cookie and unravel the saliva-soaked fortune inside. "Stirb nicht," it reads. Do not die. I normally don't put much stock in fortunes, but the fact that it was in German struck me as profound, and I was touched enough by the cookie's life-affirming message to reconsider my bloggicidal plans...

There were many times this winter when I wanted to leave the world of blogging and never look back, but this all seemed too final, too grandiose, too self-indulgent. I didn't really want my blog to die, I just wanted to take a break from it once in a while, to give it a new name (without the increasingly inaccurate "young" in the title), and maybe relocate to a different server once I find the time.

Goethe once said of Young Werther, "I shot my hero to save myself." I had planned to do the same to Young Wetzel, but I didn't have the heart. So if you find me slumped over my table in a nice Chinese restaurant in the blogosphere, don't worry. I'm probably just taking a nap.