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So I found this on my laptop. I think I nursed a bottle of wine to sleep that night on top of all the drinks at an amazing dinner, and of course, this bar. Things must’ve gotten foggy. I thought I posted it. Turns out I wrote it in Word:

I always thought that New Yorkers paid way too much for their drinks. Well, after tonight I can say that they have nothing on Paris. After having an amazing meal, which also didn’t come cheaply, but which we were prepared for, Laura and Michelle wanted to go the Ritz to have a drink. I wasn’t super interested at first and sort of reluctantly went along, but once there I noticed they had a room called Bar Hemmingway. Okay, I could deal with that.

The bartender told me that I needed a stiff man-sized drink and proceeded to pour me a raspberry vodka. It was very strong and quite tasty, but it did have that girly pink glow to it. It went down well though, and if I hadn’t helped Laura finish a little of her drink, I probably would have ordered another one. “One drink? Most people have sixteen or seventeen here…you start over there and have five or six, and then you move over here.” They just about sold me, but Laura shot me a nasty look when she saw that I was thinking about it.

So I turned it down. We had to catch the Metro before it closed for the night. It was already nearly midnight. I gave the universal “check please” sign and I, being the gentleman and all, was presented the check. 75 euros for three drinks, one of which was non-alcoholic. My raspberry vodka alone was 28 euros. Yeouch. That amount would get me through some entire days in Spain. Oh well, I drank where Hemmingway probably drank. I got to see his guns, numerous photos and a couple old typewriters. It seemed like a nice enough way to bid farewell to this city. Although I really should be writing about that dinner. But that takes some perspective and mental clarity, and I guess I’m still feeling the effects of that cocktail. Goodbye Paris.

I saw Michael Moore’s new movie before I came to Paris. Sicko is a documentary about the health care industry in the United States. It’s pretty eye opening. Not that we didn’t already know that things were out of control, but this film had a nice way of beating you over the head with the sad fact that getting sick in America can cost you your financial life.

Michael Moore likes to show extremes. We already know that Canada has a far superior health care system. Most of us point to it as an example of what we should strive for. But Moore goes beyond Canada and shows us France, where if you are working and have children somebody will come over to your house and do your laundry for you. Paying a copay? Wondering if a drug is covered or not? Forget about it. You have more important things to worry about. Like how you’re going to spend that 5 week summer holiday.

Having questionable health insurance myself, I was encouraged by Michael Moore’s movie. I didn’t need that traveler’s insurance. France would take care of me. Well today I almost put it to the test.

I’m in a restaurant. A place where Hemingway and Henry Miller and F. Scott Fitzgerald would frequent at different times. I cozied myself into a booth, and even got out my moleskin notebook in case inspiration striked, and ordered up a French Onion soup and a large carafe of wine, enough for at least two glasses. I listen in to the conversation taking place at the table next to me, I mean, it is in English after all, and that is a rare thing by this point. I gather that some of them are Italian, and the woman next to me is Spanish. They have come together on some sort of trip, but I can’t tell who is with who and where exactly they are going. But it’s interesting listening. I’m so close to them that at times I feel like it’s rude not to introduce myself, or that maybe they’ll tell me to pull up a chair. Except I’m sort of already there.

In order to get into my table the hostess had to pull out the table. After I was done with my meal I waited awkwardly for the waiter or the hostess to come back and move the table for me so I could get out. The space was super tiny, and I thought I would disrupt anyone next to me if I moved the table and tried to get out myself. I couldn’t squeeze through the narrow gap between tables without the risk of sweeping my fellow diner’s meal right off the table with my backpack or umbrella, or even just my ass. The space was tiny.

The waiter comes and lets me out. I gather up my stuff and make my way toward the door. Except it’s not the door. It’s the stairs. But I don’t realize this. To me it just seems like I’m stepping into a dark revolving door that will take me outside, and it takes a few moments to fully comprehend that I’m falling head-first down the spriral staircase that leads to the basement where the bathrooms are.

It truly was in slow motion. And it really did feel like I was falling into the abyss. I know how people must feel if they fall into an empty elevator shaft. But at the same time your senses are awakened. Adrenaline kicks in. I felt every single step with my hands and reacted accordingly. Desperately trying to stop my body from catapulting all the way down the marble stairs.

I stop. My right arm reaches out and extends itself to a stair three or four steps away from me. The waiter stretches his arm out to me, and he goes for that right arm. But I know that if I let go of that, I will fall all the way down to the bottom. And who knows what I might find there.

So I reach up with my left arm, and the waiter pulls me up, apologizing profusely in French. Of course, this is what I’d like to believe. He could be saying “another stupid American falling down the stairs, I can’t believe you clumsy fucks” or “that’s what you get for coming into this restaurant and only ordering the French Onion soup, who do you think you are, Henry Miller?”

I get to the top of the stairs and the manager is there. Or at least a better dressed version of my waiter. Again, apologies in French and a whole lot of “are you all right’s?” which seem to translate well in any language. I was fine, I suppose. I scratched my knuckles a bit and hit my head, but I didn’t do any major harm. Mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of there. “Look at that stupid American. He drinks two glasses of wine and falls down the stairs.”

But hey, when the manager asked if I was all right and I said yes it wasn’t because I was worried about the hospital bill. No, for a split second I thought that a nice morphine drip in a French hospital with little French nurses and unlimited hospitality on the French dime might be exactly what this boy needed.

Then I went down the stairs, of my own volition this time. Green line. Metro stop. On my way to see Jim Morrison’s grave with a headache not unlike the numerous wine hangovers he surely endured.

I didn’t feel an enormous energy of feeling of place when I stepped off the train in Paris. I stood in line for the taxi after first being offered one for 40 euros, and began my short journey to my hotel. Big white French buildings. Lots of them. The kind that influenced much of the architecture in New Orleans. I realized I was in a big cosmopolitan city, and it was very unlike Amsterdam.

Just when I started to learn my way around Amsterdam and catch up on sleep, I was out the door on my way to Paris. Once here, I suddenly longed for the comforts of that city. It was active with plenty to do, but it was also very quaint. I loved my room. The bed was insanely comfortable, and I had started to frequent a coffee shop. I was in my groove.

Now, I must adapt in a number of ways. I can’t wander around aimlessly and still find my way back quite the same way I could in Amsterdam. And now, my decisions often depend on two other people. I’m with M and L. I’ve been friends with Laura for years. Laura invited Michelle along after I had committed, and I met her briefly when we began to book hotel rooms and travels between countries. So far so good, but I told L last night that I would probably be doing a lot more stuff on my own now that I’ve acquainted myself a bit.

I’m finding that when I’m on my own this city seems much more accessible. I’m able to get by and do stuff even with severely limited French. Most people know some English. But when I’m with the group Laura will speak in French and translate for me, but there’s usually some laughing and uncomfortable moments that remind me of Elaine from Seinfeld, when she’s in the Asian Nail Salon and she’s convinced they are all talking about her.

I just found this cybercafe. It’s the first I’ve seen. But now that I know my way around, my posts should be a little more regular.

I’ll have to consult my tour book again for exact names, but among the places I’ve seen are Notre Dame and the gardens around the Lovre. Tons of walking around yesterday. Last night was really nice though….Laura and I took it easy and sipped a lot of wine while we explored new areas. M was jet lagged. She’d just met up with us that day and needed to get some sleep.

It’s 1:21pm. Time to get some lunch. Big lunch. I’m really hungry and ready for more than croissants and cheese.

I gave up coffee three weeks ago. Maybe four. Sleeping was becoming a nightmare and something had to give. Problem was I tried a bunch of things at the same time that I gave up coffee. But I’m sleeping better so I continue to avoid it. Until now, that is.

I landed in Amsterdam this morning at 5:30 am. If you take the time difference into consideration, I pretty much landed at the time that I would normally be going to bed. I didn’t sleep on the plane at all either. I couldn’t if I tried. Even listening to music was difficult in the tiny little nook I occupied. I had one of those seats that’s right up against the wall and I couldn’t recline. But this didn’t prevent the person in front of me from leaning back all the way the entire time. The only thing that seemed to work for me was watching movies. So I watched two. Coming To America because I’m sort of on an Eddie Murphy kick, and Marie Antonette, because, well, I’m going to Paris.

So after landing I quickly figured out the train and got to Central Station. Then I walked around for what seemed like forever trying to find my room. When I found it the sign said that they were not open until 9. This was around 7. Then it started to rain. No problem, I thought, I’ll just find a coffee shop and surf the internet and kill a couple hours. Wrong. I could grab a croissant and eat it in the rain. That was about it. I couldn’t find a place to kill two hours no matter how many streets I walked down.

Then I met Anthony. I didn’t trust him at first. “Hey, are you an American?” Like I didn’t have tourist stamped on my forehead as I wheeled my suitcase down the brick streets- probably waking everyone up with sound. Anthony’s shtick is to give people tours. I needed someone to point me in the right direction badly. So I started walking with him. He’d go on and on about how I had to take a picture of this or that, and I think he described the red light district as being “like a football field, four canals and four blocks” about ten times. He gave me the lowdown on weed, even though I said I wasn’t going to smoke any, and he told me where the best girls were if I wanted to go window shopping later on. But best of all, he pointed me to a coffee shop. Something I desperately needed more than anything. And what was this coffee shop that I had missed during my three hours of walking around? McDonalds. That’s right. A real fucking tourist. But I didn’t care. Anthony kept going on and on how I needed a guy like him to show me around and how he lived in the states for 21 years, but I’ve never had coffee this good from a McDonalds. It came out of an espresso machine and it was great. Of course the finally being able to sit down might have had something to do with it.

Gradually Anthony’s stories became a little more outrageous. He served time for armed robbery in 1982….then something else happened that got him deported from the US. I didn’t want to know too much. But he seemed like a pretty decent guy. I gave him 7 Euros…he’s unemployed and this is how he makes his money. It was totally worth it for pointing me in the direction of the coffee alone.

But now I’m checked into my room. Minneapolis time is 3:28am. But it’s 10:28 here. I’d love to take a little nap. Let’s hope the tiredness can override the coffee.

A few weeks ago I decided to leave the house after being cooped up for several days. Time off of work and a cold that wouldn’t go away really left me with very few reasons to leave the house. I had gone grocery shopping. And I have a cat to keep me company. But eventually it’s the search for media that drives me from the confines of home. Netflix only goes so far.

I bundle up, don a hat, and wrap a scarf around my head. I’m completely disguised. I half expect to get nabbed by homeland security agents. I mean, why am I hiding my face? And what’s in the jacket?

Well, after making a quick stop, it’s a Jimmy John’s sub. Homeland Security may not care so much about that, but I have to be covert if I want to get it into the theater.

I’m not the type to sneak much into the theaters. Maybe a bottle of water. That’s about it. I’m not popping my own corn or anything. But when you stay inside for a week or so straight with a bad cold, a Jimmy John’s sub and a movie start to sound really good. And if you can combine the two, then all the better.

I didn’t count on the movie being so packed. After all, this was one of those movies that I felt like a late-comer to. It had been out for weeks, and I was looking forward to picking a prime spot in the back to chow down on my #12 Beach Club (on a sub, hold the mayo).

As the trailers rolled, I found myself in a bit of a predicament. How do I eat this sub without making tons of noise and looking like a giant slob? I hated the guys who did this sort of thing, and I didn’t want to become one of them. Somewhere in the heap of clothing that I’d piled up in the empty seat next to me was the sub. I scanned it through the corner of my eye, looking for an opening. There had to be some way to get to the inside pocket without being too obvious about it.

I managed to open up my coat, but I still had a ways to go to actually get the sub out of the inside pocket. This would take some time. Finally just as Babel started to play I summoned up the courage to pull the sub out of my pocket. Success. Now all I had to do was unwrap it.

I did all of this hesitantly while trying to minimize noise. Upon unwrapping my sub, I folded the deli paper over. I never messed with the paper or crumpled it up when I was done. The only distraction to my fellow theater goers would be the image of me chowing on a gigantic sub instead of munching on a bucket of popcorn.

While the visual of eating a sub in a movie theater may be a little unusual, at least it’s a relatively quiet thing to eat, and it doesn’t emit an odor either. A friend of mine once said that she didn’t like going to see movies in the theater because of the popcorn. She said it smelled like stale farts. I used to think she was crazy, but now it’s all I think about when I hear someone chomping away. And they do chomp too. Never mind that they’re two feet from you, if that. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be better if they just let one rip instead. It would be a concentrated blast, but at least it wouldn’t last the duration of the movie like those popcorn buckets.

Last week I had another frustrating experience. Candy man sat behind me. He spent the duration of the movie unwrapping each individual piece of candy. He must have sneaked it in, because no theater in their right mind would ever sell candy that’s individually wrapped. Not unless they want to start installing metal detectors at the door.

So soon this candy chomping, individually unwrapping guy decides to take it up a notch. He puts on his nylon jacket. And he moves around it in like he’s watching Footloose instead of quirky little drama called Little Children. I shoot him sideways glances, but I’m a little nervous about doing a full-blown turnaround. There’s no backing down once you go there. I found that out once when I had a chair kicker behind me who turned out to be my former boss. Whoops.

Things got surreal and comical when the guy crunched up a coke can and threw it on the floor. I looked at my friend for an exchange of a couple wtf’s. But that’s when I thought we might be dealing with mental illness. And as the credits began to roll, it was confirmed. Walking down a row of seats about five or so rows ahead of him, he looked completely lost as he gazed up at the screen. Then he’d walk back into the aisle, linger a moment, before turning around and doing it all over again. And yes, his nylon jacket was still making a lot of noise. But my image of him dancing was gone.

The cd player at work is skipping, and my ipod hasn’t been updated in a long time. So I decided to do something about it. Go old school, if you will. Bring in cassettes, and crank them up.

First up is a live album by The Smiths called Rank. It came out in 1988, and I haven’t really been played it more than a couple times since 1990. I remember liking it a lot though. It was raw and emphasized the guitars. It’s basically the sound of a rock band beating Morrissey into submission.

When I was a kid I bought a lot of cassettes. I started out on vinyl, and I bought a lot since then in the late 1990’s when I got on a streak, but it was the cassette that pretty much dominated my youth.

Every scrap of money I earned, whether it was my allowance when I was younger, or the fast food paychecks that started around 14, went to buying tapes. Well, that and cigarettes.

The last time I brought in a stack of tapes to play at work was 1988. I was working at this ice cream place called Swensens in a mall in Kansas City. They served sandwiches and had a little cafe thing going on during the day, but at night it was all ice cream, and the place was run by a bunch of 15 year olds.

I was the first of the ruffians to get hired. Then I got a bunch of friends jobs there. Pretty soon we’re all sitting at the back table smoking cigarettes and listening to tapes.

I remember a girl I like introduced me to The Clash. Combat Rock. Then she ended up giving me the tape for some reason. Well, probably because she liked me. I also remember playing some R.E.M. albums, as well as the new David Lee Roth album. Weird time. I was into pretty much everything.

It was Led Zeppelin that got me in trouble though. I think it was Led Zeppelin II. My friend Mike had introduced me to Led Zeppelin the previous year. Well, beyond Led Zeppelin IV anyway. I’d had that one for a while. Mike was great. He gave me one tape at a time. Teased me with it, and hinted at what would come next. Man, what I’d give to experience “Houses Of The Holy” or “Led Zeppelin III” again for the first time like that.

I showed up for my shift as usual around 4:30. Tina, the firecracker redhead manager, was still there. Which was a little unusual. Usually she left early and I didn’t have to deal with her. I’d had my run-ins in the past. She wasn’t too fond of me leaving my Camel Lights in the freezer, for instance. Back at the back table one of my 15 year old friends had told me that cigarettes taste more refreshing if you keep them in the freezer. Tina didn’t like this.

I was far from an ideal worker. Some kid sitting at the back table with a smoke hanging out of their mouth isn’t exactly what someone wants to see when they bring their grandchildren in for an ice cream cone. I spent more time socializing than cleaning or restocking items too. But I felt like I was sort of invincible because I’d gotten so many people jobs there.

“We need to talk,” Tina said. I thought maybe she was going to get on me for smoking at the back table or something. I knew she didn’t like me. I was a hire of the clueless old people who owned the place. They were nice and seemed to like me on the Saturday mornings I had to work with them. But they were probably in bed by the middle of my 5-9 evening shift.

“I’m going to have to let you go.”

I was shocked and I asked her why.

“For playing Led Zeppelin too loud.”

I didn’t know what to say. She hit me where it hurt. She insulted Led Zeppelin. “What’s wrong with playing Led Zeppelin?’

This got her going. “Some people don’t like Led Zeppelin, Todd. I don’t like Led Zeppelin.”

I was horrified. This was beyond belief. How could anyone in their right mind, especially an older person in their early 20’s, not like Led Zeppelin? Suddenly I didn’t want to work for her anymore. But I cared about references. My food service career was at stake. What if someone called and asked about me?

“Well,” Tina said, “I suppose I could lie a little.”

I really missed that place. There was nothing like sitting at the back table with your friends, smoking cigarettes, complaining about school and parents, and then making malts and ice cream sundaes for each other. Life didn’t get much better than that.

Thanks Tina. You ruined my life.

Tom Waits records are events. Or at least they were when Mule Variations came out in 1999. It had been 7 years since his last real record. 1993’s The Black Rider was more of an exercise in theater than a proper record. But even if you count that one, it had been a long wait. 1992, Bone Machine, I’m living at home while I take some time off from college. By 1999 I’d grown up a bit. For better or worse, Tom’s characters were a little more real to me. And he always had some interesting things to say.

Got to get behind the mule, every morning and plow

I had a cat I hated. A kitten actually. A kitten with a rotten personality. I was feeling really down that winter and thought I’d go to the humane society and get a furry companion. A few minutes in the little room and I had bonded with him. “A Siamese,” the lady at the counter said, “oh, you’re going to have your hands full.” I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.

Niko was a waste of a good name. He liked to climb me like he was a monkey climbing a tree. And he never avoided my face either. I had to close my eyes and hope that he wasn’t easily startled as he made his journey towards the top of my head. He liked to sit up there. Right on top of my head. I’d pull him off and put him on my lap or the floor, and then he’d run up my body and do it all over again. And more often than not, he’d jump from my head onto my papers. The little bastard had no respect for me working out of my home.

Mr. Curt lived across the hall. His first name was Curt, but I liked to add the Mr. because he was a very fastidious man. He didn’t like me to do laundry after 9pm, for example, because he thought the noise would keep him up- even though the washers and dryers were in the basement and we were on the second floor. And if I had a girl over, no matter what hour she came over or left, he was sure to notice. But he was a good guy. We had our own little Kramer-Jerry Seinfeld relationship going on. The doors were usually wide open, and it wasn’t long before he took quite a liking to little Niko.

I don’t recall Niko ever making the journey to the top of Mr. Curt’s head, so maybe that explains why Mr. Curt liked him so much. Then again, who doesn’t like a kitten? His nose had likely never been clawed either, and therefore wasn’t hindered in anyway in its sensitivity to smell. “Is little Niko liter trained?” Well, yeah. Or at least I thought so. I mean the stuff in the box was all covered up. I had my suspicions that maybe he was having accidents though. When this happens your nose kind of goes crazy and you think you smell it everywhere. So Mr. Curt was sort of my validation that maybe there was something wrong. I had stockpiled a huge stack of envelopes from the newspaper clipping service I used for sales leads, and I had a sneaking suspicion that he was doing his business back behind my couch where the bulk of those clippings were stored.

Presidents Day. I have the day off and decide to go record shopping. But I don’t quite trust Niko. I’d had him about a month, and my apartment was starting to get a little funky smelling. Nothing I could pinpoint though. So I put Niko in my bathroom and closed the door. At least that way I could keep track of him.

So I come back to my funky smelling apartment. Mr. Curt is gone. He didn’t have the work perks that I had, and didn’t have the day off. I open the door to check on Niko and see him on top of the sink, ready to pounce on me. All around him, on all of the white porcelain are little tiny brown specs. It didn’t take me long to connect the dots and trace them back to Niko.

Bye bye Niko. I didn’t like him anyway. And he was kitten enough that I didn’t feel too guilty. “It just wasn’t working out” isn’t an excuse that would keep him from getting adopted.

Mr. Curt on the other hand wasn’t too happy. I guess looking back it was sort of like his cat too. I did tell him where he could find Niko though, and he didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to go there and adopt him.

You don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops

You don’t. You meet them in rock clubs when your three sheets to the wind after seeing another band perform at another club a few hours earlier. The key was in my car door, but the night was beautiful. The perfect summer night. I didn’t know who was playing at the 7th Street Entry, or even if I’d know anybody there, but I was set on making the most of the night.

Margaret liked rock and roll. And she went to shows by herself. If there’s a weakness I have for women, that’s it. You go to a rock show by yourself, you’re pretty cool in my book.

We dated for close to a year and saw a lot of rock shows. Then we broke up. Right after having breakfast in a very coffee shop like place. To the sounds of Joy Division. To this day I can’t think of a more miserable band to break up to. Awful.

When you share my bed, you share my name

I always thought this was a real bad ass thing to say, and I love Tom for saying it.

When the weather gets rough, and it’s whiskey in the shade, it’s best to wrap your savior up in cellophane

I’m not a church going man. I wasn’t in 1999, and I’m not now. Some of my favorite songs in the whole world deal with spiritual rebirth or the longing for personal salvation though. Chocolate Jesus, however, is not one of those songs.

It does sort of present an interesting idea though. I mean, maybe taking a little time out on Sunday to enjoy a little Chocolate Jesus wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If it’s dark chocolate it’s going to be rich in anti-oxidants, which is good for you. And there’s a sort of zen-like quality that comes from taking a few moments out of your day to really focus on something. Even if it’s something you eat. After all, people focus when they’re taking communion. The way I see it, you’re just consolidating things.

Come down from the cross, we could use the wood

Ouch. This one could really put someone in their place. You probably want to be careful who you say this to. I can think of a couple relatives that almost got this verbage from me, but I came to my senses before actually saying it. Again, pretty bad ass.

She’s my black market baby, she’s a diamond that wants to stay coal

I can’t stand it when people ask why other people are still single. Hate it. I mean, right now, I wouldn’t mind being married. Does that mean that the next person I go out with is THE ONE? No. Not at all.

It’s also weird when people ask what “type” you’re looking for. Usually I want to say “someone not like you”, because usually the people who ask are so not my type. But I think I’m going to start saying that I want a diamond who wants to stay coal. Seriously. That’s my line (well, actually Tom’s) and I’m sticking with it.

I knew Apple was going to announce something yesterday. My hopes were that they’d finally reveal an iPod that either had satellite radio capabilities or at least a built in FM tuner. I’ve held off buying a new iPod for this reason, and thought of all of the new iPods received over the holiday season and how those people would be bummed that Apple one-upped them in much the same way that I was when I bought my Powerbook only to have the Intel version launched just a couple months later. This didn’t happen.

Instead they came up with the kind of gadget everybody’s been dreaming of since the invention of the cell phone. Finally, it appears as if one small device will be capable of everything we need for life on the go. Phone. Basic computer. MP3 Player. Camera.

Currently I bring my laptop, a cell phone and an ipod to work with me on most days. Sometimes I even bring a digital camera. Of these devices, my cell phone is the one I’m most attached to. I have an office computer I can use, and there’s an office stereo and stacks of cds and other people’s iPods around to fuel the soundtrack to my work day. But if I forget my cell phone it’s like I’m running around naked all day. I can hardly remember what occupied the space in my front left pocket before the cell phone. Sure, I can call in and check my messages from my office phone, but it just isn’t the same. I mean, someone could call. Or I might need to call someone. Or there could be an emergency. It’s my lifeline to the world basically, even though I would hardly consider myself a heavy user.

With Apple’s new iPhone, I would probably leave my laptop and iPod at home. I wouldn’t get rid of either. I mean, surely the iPod would still be great for roadtrips, exercising or just about any other occasion when you need to have your musical library with you. And a large screen computer isn’t going to go away anytime soon. But for everyday on the go use, I can’t think of a better gadget than the iPhone.

I might have to be an early adapter for this one. It comes out in June, which means I guess I better start saving now. This thing is not cheap, at around $499 for the 4 gig model. And I’m sure there will be some bugs in it. But I know as soon as I see one I’m going to have to have it.

Brilliant invention.

In the days when entire cd collections couldn’t fit in the palm of your hand, you had to be careful about choosing the right handful of cds to take on a trip. A flight to another city to train for a new job meant a lot of time alone in a hotel. I wanted a cd to be more like a novel. Something I could really sink my teeth into. Something I could start on the plane and really get into by the time I had to head back.

I had just accepted a job. A big job. Not in a criminal sense, but a job where college was finally going to pay off. I’d go from having a supervisor time my potty breaks to a boss who would phone me once a week to see how things were going. Laptop. Company car. Four state territory. Life was looking up.

Then I got seated in first class. Nice. I’d yet to meet these people that offered me a crucial step in career advancement. I’d charmed the HR person with my cover letter, and gotten through a couple phone interviews. Now I had to fly to Atlanta for training. A couple questions went through my head. Most notably, how did they know I’m not some really freaky looking dude? After all, I was in sales. Image is supposed to be everything. Well, and an ability to schmooze.

First class was great though. I almost didn’t want to put my headphones on because I was afraid they’d offer me something and I wouldn’t be able to accept it. But I also had a really intriguing album in my bag.

I’d stopped by the Fetus before my trip. I knew exactly what I wanted from a review I read in City Pages. When the guy at the Fetus couldn’t find it I was a little surprised. Right before I left another worker overheard him and found a box.

In The Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel. It doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue. But I had it in my bag. All I had to do was pull out my Sony Discman, slap on my headphones, and keep an eye on the flight attendant while I slipped what was to become one of my favorite albums of all time into my cd player.

But there were other issues to attend too. The seat next to me was open, which meant I could either remain in my aisle seat, or I could move next to the window and look out at the night sky.

Then there was the issue of beverages. Wine sounded good to me, but I would have to decide which red I’d want to go with. I thought I’d make sure that whatever I selected went well with my dinner, but I knew there’d be a few more cocktails before that happened. I’d like to say I picked out a fine Pinot Noir, but I think I was all about the box wine back then.

Somewhere around 35,000 feet I finally played the album. From the first track I was smitten. “When you were young you were the king of carrot flowers.” I had no idea what that meant, but by the time Mom was stabbing Dad with the fork as he threw the garbage on the floor and the narrator was busy hanging out with his girl and discovering what each others bodies were for, I knew I was hearing something profoundly unique.

Then the song cycle explodes. Jeff Mangum screams “I love you Jesus Christ”, only this time religion in music doesn’t bother me. It seems so sincere it makes me blush.

Death is part of life in some endless cycle. Anne Frank. World War II. Birth. Mutation. Sex. Reincarnation.

It’s all too much. I know from this first listen that it’ll take me weeks beyond my stay in Atlanta to find all the treasures in this album. Years even. But I knew that a rock record was moving me in ways in which very few did after the 500th or so purchase.

“I’ll take the Seafood Primavera.”

“And another glass of wine…Merlot. Thanks.”

Enough with this bar band shit. Seriously. This band sounds nothing like the type of band you’re likely to encounter if you hit just about any bar in any city. If bar bands sounded like this Top 40 radio would be a beautiful thing, American Idol wouldn’t exist, and we may have even spared ourselves from W (sorry I can’t even type his name anymore without feeling sick).

Can you imagine what it would look like? Every small town would be a ripe scene waiting to explode. It’d be like having a 1959 Liverpool, 1967 San Francisco, 1977 London and 1989 Seattle everyday in every small town. “Good to see you’re back in a bar band, baby.” Yeah, maybe at the type of joint you’d find in Minneapolis in 1984.

The Replacements, Husker Du, and the Minneapolis scene of the early 1980’s feature prominently in the Hold Steady’s approach. Like Westerberg, Craig Finn wouldn’t be in a band if he had nothing to say. Fortunately for us, he’s got plenty to say, but he’s abandoned the unfocused jazz approach the got him so many comparisons to early pre-Born To Run Springsteen albums.

Boys And Girls In America is all about economy. Lead Singer/Lecturer Craig Finn sounds like he’s part of the band instead of competing with them. Gone are the long narratives found on 2004’s Almost Killed Me and especially last years concept heavy Separation Sunday, and in their place are concise rock songs. Most feature pronounced piano and restrained guitar. Some of which Craig Finn even manages to sing on.

The album kicks off with “Stuck Between Stations” and tells an interesting story about the poet John Berryman, Minneapolis and drinking. “He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected/He loved the golden gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters”. Alcohol gets the best of him (“he likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration”) before he leaps to his death and drowns in the Mississippi river. Hard lesson. You have to wonder if there isn’t a little band commentary in there.

The album’s other highlights include “Chips Ahoy”, “Massive Nights” and the very Cheap Trickish “Southtown Girls”. Boys And Girls In America’s greatest strengths come with its biggest detours. “Citrus” is a lovely ode to romance and inebriation, and oftentimes the romance of inebriation. Religion creeps its way in as well “I feel Jesus in the tenderness of honest nervous lovers/I feel Judas in the pistols and the pagers that come with all the powders.”

The real highlight is “First Night”. The song is where Craig Finn’s storytelling comes full circle as he resurrects Holly from Separation Sunday. Piano driven with layers of strings and guitars underneath, this song is The Hold Steady as probably nobody could have imagined them just a few years earlier. Indeed, if bar bands sounded like this, it would only be a matter of time before this song would penetrate a prom or two somewhere along the way.

Boys And Girls In America does have a few missteps, most notably “Same Kooks”. Guitarist Tad Kubler is wonderfully restrained on most of the album, but when he lets loose here the song can’t really support it. Elsewhere “You Can Make Him Like You” seems a little pedestrian, and “Chillout Tent” suffers a bit from the guest appearances even if the subject matter and song itself are pretty strong.

But none of that really matters. What really counts here is how brilliant the storytelling and lyrics are on the bulk of the record. Nobody comes close to Craig Finn at his most focused. And there’s plenty of focus here, lyrically and musically. Oh, and it rocks. If only all bar bands were this way.