Confusing Work with Play in the Midwest

Although I wasn't born in the midwest, it is my home. I am heading there next week to attend a conference (in Iowa City, IA), see friends and family (in Chicago, IL), and check in on things back at my house and old lab (in Bloomington, IN). The conference should be interesting-- this is the third consecutive year I have attended this particular meeting (of the Society for the Study of Molecular Biology and Evolution) and I hope I don't come down with a case of society fatigue (a little discussed but common condition where, after you attend a particular society's annual meeting a few times, all the talks start sounding the same even though the first year or two they all seemed really fascinating). Over time, I have definitely developed a preference for smaller, more focused meetings, but it seems like a good idea to stay in the general evolutionary biology loop by attending a bigger conference once a year. The Society for the Study of Evolution is the other option, but it is more like going to a really fun yearly college reunion than going to a scientific conference, so probably not the best way for me to keep on top of recent work. More diligent folks are able to somehow attend talks and learn something at that meeting, but last year, when I went commando (no registration) and only attended 4 talks, I realized it was probably time to give up the charade. It is, of course, unavoidable-- many of my closest colleagues are my closest friends (e.g. Britt and Idelle with whom I waded through graduate school at IU and with whom I will get to visit in Chicago after the meeting next week). In the same vein , there is little distinction between vacation and field work, or entertaining an invited speaker and a typical Friday night out on the town. I only hope my inability to distinguish between work and play is a sign of how enjoyable my work is, not a warning that my fun has gotten really mundane....

Sampling damselflies and cheating death with Idelle on top of Haleakala in Hawaii (above)-- the last of the 50 states for me to visit-- and working on a paper with Britt at Lake Monroe (really, we were; below).

Schaackmobile Visitor Hall of Famers

This past weekend the Schaackmobile (also now referred to as the Schaack Shack, care of Christian Cox, I believe) Visitor Hall of Fame had two new inductees (you only have to visit once to get in, so plan a trip!) Enduring a few nights in the trailer might be easy to justify if I lived in some amazing city, on the coast, etc. But I don't. And the double whammy of asking friends to a) come to Arlington despite its, shall we say, limited cultural offerings, and b) sleep in the trailer while they are here, means I simply must erect a virtual hall of fame for those dedicated and intrepid enough to make the trek down. So here it is, built out of the stone and mortar of my mind (and a little blogpost featurette). That said-- I had an awesome time hosting GP and Darron down here and, as frequently happens when friends come visit you, I got to see and do things in my new hometown that I might not have ever done without the motivation of showing them around. On top of all that, everyone fit in the trailer, no problem!Some caveats you should know about before planning your vacation: 1) temperature control in the schaackmobile is tricky and it is stinkin' hot in Texas, 2) there is definitely no place to store luggage of any kind in the trailer so pack lightly, and 3) although clearly possible, we didn't actually have to sleep 3 in the trailer this time, as Clement generously lent his bedroom to the cause. But it is possible! Two in there was downright roomy. GP remarked how much smaller the trailer was than he had remembered, while Darron was pleasantly surprised to see it had grown since his first glimpse. We, of course, relied heavily on the freedom (of movement) provided by patio life and cooked, ate, and drank exclusively outside (primarily beer and large hunks of red meat). We did, however, have morning hang outs and recording sessions in the trailer (also now referred to as Studio S, care of Darron Luesse). More impressive than overcoming the challenges presented by hosting tall men in a tiny trailer, we managed to have a great time in the greater Arlington metropolitan area! We pounded the unforgiving pavement of Dallas, wowed by glamour built on the spoils of oil exploitation and entrepreneurship. We strolled through the cobblestone streets of Ft. Worth in what was once the largest livestock market in the world and currently serves as cowboy capital of the United States. We fell in love with Brent Best, the lead singer of Slobberbone and The Drams, in Denton. We saw minor leaguers strive to fulfill likely unfulfillable dreams in Grand Prairie. And we had lunch in Waco. Somehow, despite all this, there are still plenty of stones left unturned that will likely go unexplored until my next guests arrive. Until then, you know me, it will just be work, work, work, ...so come soon!

There and Back Again: A Week Long North Texas Musical Mini-Odyssey

You may have noticed that the best part about living in Texas for me so far has been music. Last week, I finally got to see the Old 97s, a Dallas-derived band that was number one on my list of bands-that-I-haven't-seen-that-I-would-like-to-see (now replaced, perhaps, by Ryan Adams, but I need to think about who gets the #1 spot before making any hasty proclamations). The band exudes a good-natured brand of country-flavored rock n' roll that is difficult not to love-- it was an exuberant performance by Rhett Miller and the band complete with lots of sweat, pelvic gyrations a la Elvis Presley, and crowd-wide sing-a-longs. Plus, I got to eat a foot long corndog afterwards, which I always enjoy.

Close on the heels of this delightful concert experience, I took a slight wrong turn and ended up at the double-billing of Ssion and Fischerspooner Friday night in Dallas. Ssion is a dance-y, emo, 80's, Cure-like, multi-media-loving band whose finale song, Street Jizz, was actually catchier than I can probably convince you of in a few short words but, unfortunately, isn't one of the tracks you can stream on myspace. They weren't my cup of tea, but it was definitely entertaining.The headliners were Fischerspooner, a performance art duo out of Chicago, my home town, who played the worst live music I have heard in several moons. For those of you that think I just gush about every band I see, here is the counter-evidence: these guys stunk. But, if you think spacesuits, poorly-synchronized dancing, tutus, and light-fixture-containing hats are a good substitute for musical talent, check them out.Last but not least, I made my first trek up to Denton last night to see my new friend Petra's band Leatherwood. Denton is cool, kind of like a Texas-y version of Bloomington-- very green (actually and metaphorically), tons of musicians, and a welcome breath of fresh air compared to the giant concrete slab that is DFW. They played a too-short set at a bar called Mable Peabody's, that was just long enough to wash the emo off me from Friday night. It was awesome and I can't wait to see them again. Feels good to be back to gushing.... thank you for inviting me up Petra!

Lake Weekend: June 18-21, 2009

Today is already a great day. I received the annual Lake Weekend announcement from my dear friend Darron Luesse (who is coming to Arlington next week, is 6'5", and needs to somehow fit into the trailer [maximum interior height, 5'9", max length not much more than that] during his visit.) It's gonna be a hoot.
What is Lake Weekend you ask? Every year, Darron invites his closest friends from all different parts of his life to his parents' condo on the beautiful shores of the Lake of the Ozarks, a dammed river that runs through an erstwhile mountain range creating what has got to be one of the longest lakes in the world. Typically, we arrive Thursday night (last year I walked in the door, was handed a margarita by Darron's dad [Mr. Luesse], went immediately downstairs to the dock, disrobed, and jumped directly into the water within approximately 6 minutes of arrival). Friday and Saturday are spent being tossed off inflatable tubes at high speed and water-skiing, with intermittent bouts of eating grilled food and drinking Mr. Luesse's margaritas. At night, we listen to Lake CDs. What are Lake CDs, you ask? The best part about Lake Weekend, other than the watersports and camaraderie. Making Lake CDs originated, I believe, in order to maximize democracy and minimize fighting and suckiness when it came time to put music on the stereo during Lake Weekend. But it has become much more than that-- it has become a competitive mixed CD exchange that occupies (depending on the participant) days, if not weeks, and, in my case, months prior to the annual event. It is a chance to share recent gems you've uncovered, disinter old favorites that might have been forgotten, share live versions and rarities, or (also in my case) to continue bludgeoning your friends with your favorite Bob Dylan songs against their will. Everyone leaves the weekend exhausted and tan with an arsenal of new music to meander through for at least 2-3 months after Lake Weekend, at which point it is time to start thinking about making the next year's CD. Unless you're Chris Moore, in which case your 2010 Lake CD is already half-made, and your 2009 CD has been in the can for 6 months. Perhaps the only thing that could eclipse the fun and relaxation of competitive mix-making is competitive water-trick-performing, as illustrated here by the headstand-on-a-moving-innertube-off between Brian Rodenbeck and yours truly. All this competitive recreation has had an awesome result over the years: Darron's friends are all friends with each other (see earlier post on Shane's visit). It is a brilliant approach to vacationing and I can't wait to go-- crank the engine and thaw the margarita mix Mr. Luesse!

A Mother's Day Post

Born in the 1940's to a working class family in Chicago, raised on the north side in the gilded perfection of the 50's, only to break free from those superficial trappings in the 60's to marry and start a family while on the lam in Canada in the 70's, returning to the post-war opulence of the 80's to start her own business, falling into a murky haze in the 90's, emerging triumphant in the mid-2000's, and continuing her creative ascent on the Cottage Grove folk art scene and political stage for many years to come, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, my mom,
Penny Schaack.

Self-Portrait

(obviously by Penny Schaack)

Happy Mother's Day Mom! At last, your own post! To the one or two people (other than my mom) that might read this blog, you may already know her and many of her best attributes. She is intuitive, creative, generous, warm, open-minded, supportive, quirky, passionate, dedicated, thoughtful, and always has time for someone who needs it-- young or old, daughter or stranger, do-gooder or deviant. She is a good friend, artist, role-model, adoptive grand-mother, actual mother, influence, sounding board, and enthusiast for things she loves or knows that I love. There have been few plateaus in her life-- but despite many ups and downs, over the last five years she has enjoyed a wonderful renaissance that I have been both proud and relieved to witness.
This comeback, and her incredible, indefatigable zest, were epitomized last year right around this time when I was walking with her to work on her first day back on the job after suffering severe injuries in a car wreck. It had taken us well over an hour to walk two and a half blocks from her house to the community center where she works. This was in part because she had a cast on her arm, was just starting to walk again (with assistance), and we were lugging an oxygen tank, but it was also because almost everyone we passed on the street stopped to hug her and welcome her home from the hospital. Shopkeepers came out of their shops. Joggers stopped their running. Old ladies who knew her, hippies who just saw her kindred, tie-dyed spirit-- all of them stopped us to hug her and welcome her back to the heart of Cottage Grove.
And when we were almost there, waiting at the corner to cross the street, she turned to me and said completely seriously, "You know Sar, I think I'm gonna be the mayor of this town one day." I tried not to laugh, but failed, and looked at her with a canula in her nose, walker in hand, and said something like, "Really, mom? You think you're gonna be the mayor of Cottage Grove?" with my familiar, but loving, smart-assy skepticism. "Well, it is certainly a possibility!" she insisted, "you know, it's mostly a ceremonial position anyway-- ribbon cuttings, and dedications, that sort of thing...." If coming back from within an inch of your life to aspirations of holding the highest political office in an exceedingly small town does not represent an extraordinarily buoyant spirit, I don't know what does.
Thank you Mom.
I'm glad you're here, and you're you, and that I am your daughter.
Thinking of you (and the Gen) at 18000 ft in Chile.

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

It's been another one of those weeks in Lake Woebegone.... when I am just not sure what to blog about because so many little interesting things have caught my eye. Whether or not they might be interesting to anyone else is an open question, but there always seems like a plethora of things I want to share....
Among other things, this week was peppered with visits to Dallas to see live music. I got to go see two bands I have blogged about previously, the Heartless Bastards and Jude the Innocent. Saturday night I went back again, despite torrentially bad weather, and saw Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Jason (we're on a first name basis, as you'll see) used to be one of the three guitarists in the guitar-trio-driven band The Drive-By Truckers which I saw in Bloomington for the first time sometime in 2005. The Truckers are great and part of what distinguishes them among many other bands steeped in the heavy southern rock tradition from which they so proudly hail is that, even though Patterson Hood technically serves as their frontman, all three guitarists were songwriters and sang lead on their own compositions. It makes their albums and shows diverse and interesting because each of them (P. Hood, J. Isbell, and Mike Cooley) have a signature style that is distinctive. Back in the day, Jason Isbell was my favorite of the three incarnations of the DBTs and now that he has formed his own band, I was very eager to check it out. Not eager enough to fork over the money for a ticket of course, but a friend of a friend won some on the interweb and through some minor miracle I ended up outside the Granada Theater in Dallas, TX on Saturday night in the rain eating a slice of pizza waiting for some soon-to-be friends who I did not know to arrive and get me into the show for free. A fairly typical evening in and of itself up to that point, if you know me well. While I was waiting for my connection to get into the show, Jason Isbell walked up. I transferred the incredibly greasy pizza slice I was devouring from my right to my left hand and reached out to shake his hand, which he politely accepted, despite its sheen. We started chatting, and I was so starstruck and overwhelmed that a) I didn't take a picture with him for the blog and b) I didn't notice that Petra, John, and Paul had arrived and were now sitting to my left. (Petra is also a musician and plays regularly in two bands, only one of which I have heard so far, but which I can't wait to see live; if you want to check out their beautiful sound, they're called Leatherwood).
At some point, I came to and tried to introduced everyone.
I said: "Guys, this is Jason. Jason, this is...."
(Paul interjected): "Paul"
(John interjected): "John"
I said: "... and Petra" (in a vain attempt to make this situation make a little more sense given it appears these people are my friends yet I don't know two of their three names).
We continued to talk and hang out a bit which was a hoot for superfans like ourselves, and then went inside for the show which wildly exceeded my expectations, which were not low. The weather had been so bad in Dallas on Saturday that the Cowboys' practice facility caved in critically injuring staff. As you can imagine, the folks that came out to see Jason Isbell on a night like this were die-hard fans. Instead of mailing it in because the crowd was sparse, Jason and the band seemed to completely absorb the high level of intensity (per fan) in the room. They played passionately and playfully and into the night with a rousing encore that rewarded the fans above and beyond the already very energetic set. It was awesome. Among the highlights were his throwbacks to the DBT days (Outfit, Goddamn Lonely Love, and Decoration Day), a cover of Psycho Killer (sung by Browan Lollar, originally by the Talking Heads), and several of his delicate-but-rocking ballads off the albums he has put out since setting out on his own (Dress Blues, Chicago Promenade, Hurricanes and Hand Grenades). There were probably well over 100 people there, but since it is a pretty big place, the whole show felt very intimate and as it unfolded, I started to feel like he was playing almost directly to me. My new sister-in-musical-love Petra pointed out later that, after hitting the Jack Daniels bottle several times, he was, in fact, playing directly to me, ... a lot of the time, ... eyes in missile lock, ... as if he wanted to somehow overlook the greasy handshake and serenade me in a room full of superfans.
So, maybe not such a typical evening?