You can watch it here.

This week the internet let us know something that totally blows my mind. President John Tyler has two living grandchildren.

These are not great great grandchildren or great grandchildren. Regular old grandchildren.

I knew that Tyler wasn’t one of the more recent Presidents. I knew that he had to have pre-dated the Civil War. After that, didn’t know much.

Turns out that John Tyler was the 10th President. Furthermore, he was alive during the Presidency of George Washington. Between Tyler, his son, and his still living grandsons, the three generation of Tylers have been alive for EVERY President in the history of this country.

How is that possible?

Read more over at Mental Floss. (As near as I can tell, they broke the story, though I don’t see a lot of attribution on other sites)

This part of the story is hazy.

Back in the summer of 1984 (it could have been ’83 or ’86 or ’87) I sat on the living room floor of my grandparents’ house in Mission, KS being quizzed by my grandfather. The subject was baseball and the questions were endless.

It was then I learned about Williams, Ruth, and Gehrig. Heard stories about the Royals and before them, the Athletics. Heard about the time my grandfather and my father saw Satchel Paige pitch.

I was maybe eight years old at the time, a kid myself, imagining in black and white what it would have been like to see Dimaggio in his prime, circling the bases or Williams in the splendor of youth sending a ground ball screaming past the infield.

And I knew there was something to baseball larger than what could be understood at face value. It was a bonding agent between generations. It made me interested in the stories my grandfather could tell.

So much of who I am as a human being—and all of the offshoot compartments of that personality—is rooted in the choices of my grandfather.

He was born into the mining world of post-WWI southeastern Kansas. A series of unglamorous dots on the map with names like Arma and Scammon, where men broke their bodies and often their spirits digging coal from the earth. He was the son of a coal miner—a fact that continues to fascinate me and inform my world view to this day.

Back in the early spring of 2009 after having driven more than 3,000 miles from Wisconsin to the southern tip of Florida and then back up, I headed over to Texas with big dreams of driving I-10 into the dried up oil towns of west Texas. But somewhere east of Houston I realized that I didn’t have it in me, so I took a right turn and headed up north into Oklahoma along highway 69.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the same highway led into those old mining towns of Arma and Scammon, and even took me through the lead mining ghost town of Picher, Oklahoma (an event that would have larger repercussions on my life in later days). I took a lot of time in those small towns shooting video and still pictures trying to capture the essence of those towns wondering what it would have been like to grow up there during the Depression. My family had moved out and onto other things, but what of the old neighbors? Where were the boys who attended the same high school as my grandfather? Were the roots of their family trees planted deep in the hardscrabble Kansas dirt? What would happen if I knocked on doors that had once been familiar to my own family line?

I continued north on Highway 69, stopping at my grandparents’ house in suburban Kansas City, Kansas and, because I was so curious about what I had seen and the questions it had brought up, I ended up interviewing my grandfather for nearly 45 minutes on camera, hearing some stories for the first time—stories only he could tell, names only he knew. It not only gave me a better sense of where I’d come from, but also generated an endless supply of new questions.

My grandfather died two weeks ago. I drove down to Kansas for the funeral service, and then a day later headed back down to Arma and Scammon with some vague notion of letting the towns, the landmarks, and those people interred in the family cemetery know that he was gone.

Or returning.

Who, on this side, can really know?

I feel so blessed to have taken the random turn right in Texas that I did, and that I had my video camera with me when I went. The stories of these men—coal miners, baseball players, long lost uncles and cousins— have afforded their heroes a mythology not granted to them in life. They have worked their way into the marrow of who I am, including what fascinates me as a publisher and writer.

I hope you have a chance to take a camera or a tape recorder with you, too.

Anyway, here’s a link to something that is in the spirit of Deer Hunting with Jesus discussing income disparities, the evolved American Dream, and how the system is different depending on who you are. I think this is a discussion we need to have, all six billion of us.

http://www.balloon-juice.com/2011/12/26/but-you-never-see-the-lies-that-you-believe-2/

Here is a partial list of the albums I bought this year:

Ms. Fridrich – You Call That Brave

Panic at the Disco – Vices and Virtues

Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band – Rock N’ Roll Never Forgets

Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band – Nine Tonight

Neurosis – Souls at Zero

The Cardinal Sin – Oil and Water

Bjork – Post

Ry Cooder – Into the Purple Valley

Explosions in the Sky – Take Care, Take Care, Take Care

Blind Pilot – We are the Tide

Blind Pilot – iTunes Sessions

Explosions in the Sky – The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place

Bruce Springsteen – Nebraska

Owen – Ghost Town

Jonston – Taller De Memoria

Kiss the Anus of a Black Cat – Hewers of Wood, Drawers of Water

Hasil Adkins – Achy Breaky Ha Ha Ha

The One Up Downstairs – The One Up Downstairs

Owen – The Seaside EP

Owen – The Rutabega

Boogiemonsters – Riders of the Storm

Vibe Syndicate – Check Yourself

The Reputation – The Reputation

Zvoov – Zvoov

Signal Hill – Self Titled

Signal Hill – The Distance

Signal Hill – More After We’re Gone

Owen – Live at Maxwell’s

This year I saw the following bands perform live:

The Smoking Popes – (May 1st, Knitting Factory, Brooklyn)

Signal Hill – Brooklyn – (September 23, The Charleston, Brooklyn)

Zvoov – Brooklyn – (September 23, The Charleston, Brooklyn)

Ms. Fridrich – (June 4, The Velvet Lounge, Washington, D.C.)

Blind Pilot – (October 12, Capitol Theater, Madison)

I hate winter.

The older I get, the less tolerance I have for the cold and the snow and the wind. Twenty years ago I would wear shorts in December and January—a misguided, but earnest middle finger to Jack Frost. My memory might not be what it used to be (what is, anymore?), but I’m pretty sure that I took a cavalier approach to dress all the way into the single digits.

Now? As soon as the thermometer even looks at 32, I’m scanning Expedia for a flight out of Dodge. I just can’t do it anymore.

Except sometimes I have to. I force myself into the elements, pretending that it’s some low budget reality show about my survival and that there are dozens of people around the world wondering if I’ll make it through one more day in the harshness of this Wisconsin weather.

That, dear reader, was a touch overly dramatic.

But I do it. When I read the weather report and I see what I figure to be Mother Nature’s biggest haymaker of the year, I rush out to be in it. My thinking is usually something along the lines of well, there might come a day when I have to survive this, and it’s better to find out in a controlled situation how the body will respond. Then I bundle up in four layers and scarves and hats, and I throw myself out into the snow or the negative temperatures and imagine myself as some Admiral Byrd type, always ready for the adventure and the blustery waltz with death.

As some of you might know, I like the idea and the practice of adventure. I like going down unmarked trails in out of the way places because of what it does to the senses. When there is uncertainty of outcome, your senses work overtime. You see things in ways you don’t normally see, taking note of details along the way. You hear things that force the microprocessors in your brain to interpret what was that? A rushing river? A roaring lion? And you know that real consequences linger in the balance. You have to pay attention.

The cold in winter makes you pay attention.

Is this what frostbite feels like? How will I know if it’s hypothermia?

This being a blog about books and publishing and not one about middle aged dudes describing an adventure from a Rogaine commercial, I’ll get over to my point.

We’re all gonna die. It might be the cold. It might be the lion. But sooner or later, some unseen hand will tap us on the shoulder and then…

I know that some people write because they want to entertain. They want to produce fast rides through bright lights that always (even if we forget for a second), reserve an airbag for us, so that we know we’ll see an approximation of happily ever after. And that’s cool. But it’s also not my thing.

I want the uncertainty of unmarked trails. I want to travel with overmatched protagonists who have to ask serious existential questions of themselves along the way. Is today’s cold, too cold? I want the confusion of life experience, confronted, and processed on the page. I truly believe this type of storytelling can not be learned in a classroom or authentically articulated from a life lived indoors.

And that is why we must bundle up as the mercury goes down.

We head out.

Today’s choice is…

Artist: Ms. Fridrich
Song: “The Bills” from the album You Call That Brave
Suggester: www.bandcamp.com / @oddmonstr

Intro:

Because I’m all about making the internet a part of the democracy that is First Listen, First Thoughts, I solicited Twitter again to find me something to review from the theoretically great, but in practice frustrating as shit www.bandcamp.com. The only instructions I gave people were to find cool cover art or song titles or album names. When the dust settled tonight, I ended up with Ms. Fridrich. All I’m seeing of an album cover is a woman (who I presume to be the eponymous Ms. Fridrich) sitting on a bass/kick drum and a guy who reminds me of a bartender that I talked to in Seattle one night when Roxy and I were on the big trip across the country that left us at a place called the Lava Lounge. Anyway, the Bartender has his hand draped across a piano that I mistakenly thought was a Marshall half stack at first.

Who it sounds like (in my head) before I listen to the first note:

Elizabeth Elmore/The Reputation/Sarge: One of the best discoveries the internet ever gave me was Elizabeth Elmore who fronted first Sarge and then The Reputation, and while most of the catalog is up tempo pop punk, there’s this great song by The Reputation called “The Ugliness Kicking Around” off the To Force a Fate album. It’s piano driven and may even have some strings in it. There’s a lot of smarts and attitude in it that shakes you by the collar and makes you simultaneously ask yourself, “Why am I such an asshole/bitch?” and at the same time “Why do I let other people be assholes/bitches towards me?” I kinda feel like Ms. Fridrich might be smart and feisty in a same way because she’s strong enough to say, “You know what? I’m not even going to come up with a band name. Just let them know Ms. Fridrich is taking the stage.” I think it’s important enough to point out here that the way I explain Elizabeth Elmore’s appeal should not be confused with “Oooh, she’s an angry, shouty woman!” Anybody can dress up as Avril Lavigne and pretend to be that. It’s another matter entirely to come as genuinely tough without ever saying how tough you are.

Low: Even though the band name is all focused on her (supposing her name is actually Ms. Fridrich and it’s not some clever name stolen from a movie reference or something that once appeared in a comic book) maybe the music is a 50/50 split with her and the Seattle bartender guy playing lo-fi rock with some serious vocal harmonies. There isn’t all that much piano in the Low catalog, but there are songs like “When I Go Deaf” from The Great Destroyer that show you that there is sometimes nothing more sonically powerful than a man and a woman singing together.

Rainer Maria: I saw Rainer Maria in the basement of a church what seems like 15 years ago with my friend Rachel and her friend Dee Dee (whose dad was in the Replacements), and I remember liking the show at the time, but I was in a big hip hop phase and the Rainer Maria show didn’t resonate with me the same way it would today. What you get are some sweet and maybe a tinge vulnerable vocals. If you don’t know Rainer Maria I’d suggest starting with the album Look Now Look Again. Again, there isn’t any piano that I can remember, but it’s softer than Low, and I’m trying to avoid the easy comparisons like “Oh, I bet Ms. Fridrich sounds just like Tori Amos or Fiona Apple.”

Let’s shut off the Kaia, hit the reset button, and begin!

:01 Right away we get a bold, strong, voice that takes command of the song by tone and lyric. This sounds like it’s going to be heavy on the piano and maybe not so much with the other instruments.

:13 Missed that! Here comes some high energy–here’s an odd comparison–I hear a bit of the Dresden Dolls at this point.

1:04 I’ll stand by Elizabeth Elmore guess. The vocal delivery is similar especially philosophically.

1:22 We’ve got layered vocals and that makes me a happy boy. I’m really digging this. It’s got a good edge to it. Pardon my French, but this song is decidedly not fucking around. It is to the point and driving.

1:27 I’m also a sucker for Seattle Bartender’s drumming. He’s really in the pocket, but not boring, bashy 1,2,3,4. There’s some finesse there. Pretty fantastic.

1:43 Really cool breakdown. Yeah, I’m buying this. This is great.

2:17 These two are really in sync and recorded well.

Final Thoughts:

I’m now listening to my second song from Ms. Fridrich and I know that I’m going to love this album. I don’t even want to finish writing this review I just want to go buy it.

This isn’t Low. It’s not Rainer Maria. I could see Elizabeth Elmore and Ms. Fridrich on the same mixtape. I could see Fiona Apple on the same mixtape. This is unique without being needlessly experimental and forced. I heart this immensely. If you don’t like it, tell me why, but I probably still won’t understand you.

I’m now four songs into this album. This is so damn good. Why is Ms. Fridrich not playing Madison Square Garden right now? And why am I not in the front row? If I win the lottery, I’m putting these guys on tv every night on every channel.

Here’s Peff talking about his quest to find Steam Train Maury Graham, the King of the Hobos.

You can watch it here.

I am a self-identified dirtball.

I am only three generations removed from the coal mines of southeastern Kansas. I went to a second rate university and took six years to graduate. On the days I wasn’t in class, I was installing carpet or working in a warehouse, lots of the time with ex-cons and guys on work release. I’m much more inclined to go out and shoot guns in the swamps of North Florida than I am to check out the opera. I’m a bowler with a near 200 average who has read precisely one book of the 70 (hardcover and paperback, fiction) on this week’s New York Times Bestseller list. And when my friends scattered to points elsewhere to go where the real money was, I decided that it’d be a good idea to start a publishing company (Bleak House Books).

By pretty much all standards, I was, and may continue to be, unqualified to run a publishing company (first Bleak House, now Tyrus Books). I have no business background, I never interned at a big publishing house or prestigious agency. Just about the only thing I had going for me was that I had always loved books and I am endlessly fascinated by people’s stories. I believe that books, more than any other media, are the best vehicles for capturing and transferring the human condition–what it means to be alive in these times in this place. That’s what I want to capture. And because it’s what I’ve always known, I’m more inclined to record and publish the stories of the people around me, and the people way off the Interstate in obscure pockets of America.

To that end, I am not the least bit interested in the trendsetting nouveau rich or heavily armed black belt international bad asses who dole out clap along justice.

I think people read for one of two reasons– first, to escape into fantastic worlds filled with action, and sex, and special effects that get our adrenaline going, and second, to feel less alone.

It’s this business of feeling less alone that intrigues me. I want to know that other people living regular lives sometimes have bombs dropped on their world and that real survival can simply be a matter of getting out of bed and willing your way through the day without any special skillset or resources at your disposal. I want to know that other people in other places have come to learn the resiliency and beauty of the human spirit when it overcomes obstacles with no hope of a million dollar payout.

I sometimes worry that publishing leans too heavily on the escapism and that we run the danger of over-escaping, waiting for the literary IMAX to move things forward. All of that said, I understand that all of that escapism sells a lot of books that play a big part in propping up the whole of the industry. I’m not knocking it and I wouldn’t even know where to begin in selecting those titles or the responsibilities and stresses that come with moving 20, 50, 100,000 units of written Hollywood. But I think it’s important to fight for what makes the book special–the human connection.

I’m not advocating for some starry-eyed literary revolution. At the end of the day, I just want people to read, and as a small publisher who doesn’t need to move 50,000 units to be successful with a title, I’m going to keep an eye open for books that appeal to 3,000 dirtballs like me. No glamour, but if I can find survival, and a good story of the human spirit, then all the better.