This is what it means to say Madison, Wisconsin

The last time I was on I-88 I was on my way back from college.

Actually, that might not be true.  I think I’ve been on I-88 several times since then.  But the last time I was on I-88 any farther west than the far west suburbs of Chicago was certainly on a return trip from college.  It simply hasn’t been necessary for me to go any farther since then.  Until today.

Today I’m going to Madison, Wisconsin, also known as my second-favorite Midwestern city.[1]  Specifically, I’m going to the world famous High Noon Saloon in Madison, Wisconsin to see Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers.  The last time I was in Madison was to see Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers at the world famous High Noon Saloon.

That was October of 2009.  That was a lifetime ago.

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The parallels are eerie.  The first couple times I went to Madison it was just Madison.  But now Madison reminds me of Oklahoma City, another state capitol in which I’ve seen RCPM.  Specifically, I’ve seen them at the Wormy Dog Saloon in Oklahoma City, which reminds me of the High Noon Saloon.

The first time I saw RCPM at the Wormy Dog their opening act was Sons of Bill, who just so happen to be the openers tonight.  They were also the last band I saw in Ft. Worth, at a venue called Moon Bar, right next door to the Aardvark, where I once saw RCPM.  Moon Bar, in turn, is a block away from University Drive, right next to the original Fuzzy’s Taco Shop.

One of the reasons I’m excited to go to Madison is because there’s a Fuzzy’s Taco Shop on University Drive.

Oh, and that night at Moon Bar?  I saw another band called the Wheeler Brothers, who were also in Chicago right after I moved back.

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Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah, I-88.  I’ve driven down I-88 a whole shitload of times.  But I’ve never driven it in my 2010 Mazda6.  That was a Texas addition.  I’ve also never driven it while wearing the Lost Immigrants’ confused llama.  That’s a Texas thing, too.

Did I mention I was wearing this same shirt at Love & War in Grapevine the last time I saw RCPM?  Did I mention that Roger fucking Clyne said it was a cool shirt?  Okay, just checking.

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I remember I-88.  It’s familiar, even if everything is different.

That brings up an interesting point.  Did you know that we don’t actually notice everything?  Our brains are actually surprisingly lazy.  They fill most things in from memory.  So you’re not actually seeing your home, your car, your best friend, your spouse.  You’re actually seeing a memory of that person.  You’re not actually driving to work down a road.  You’re driving the memory of that road.

It’s how it’s so easy to zone out, to get to work and think, “Wait.  How did I get here?”

I’ll bet that’s why things remind us of other things, too.  I’ll bet that’s why I walked in to the Wormy Dog Saloon in Oklahoma City and thought, “Wow, it’s like I’m back at the High Noon Saloon.”  My brain was trying to fill in the space with the closest memories I had.

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I think that about half of my drives to and from Macomb, IL on I-88 came during my last semester out there.  That was also known as the semester when I thought I had a thing going with Her.  So every couple Fridays I drove back to Chicago in my little blue Chevy Cavalier.  Every couple Sundays I drove back from Chicago in my little blue Chevy Cavalier, too.

In the time after we broke everything off I thought of her as a ghost, haunting my memories.  It was like I could see her in all the places we’d been before.  It’s why I was so surprised to not even recognize her when I saw her in the grocery store a couple weeks ago.

But now I understand.

Back then my brain was still trying to put her in the places she belonged.  Back then my brain was still trying to remember her.  Back then she was a ghost, a pale, translucent vision haunting the dusty corners of my mind.

Now she’s a stranger.  To me and my memory.  She is right where she belongs.

Living her own life.

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I am a grave robber.

I am a cannibal.

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There was a time when those memories seemed so important.  There was a time when I dredged them up just to keep them alive, just to make sure they mattered.  There was a time I fixated upon them, choosing to remember them in the hopes they wouldn’t fade away.  Choosing to remember them so my brain kept trying to paint her in to the picture wherever I went.

My memory now is perverse, corrupted.  My memory is dead and buried.

But I dig it up anyway.

I dig it up for shits and giggles.

I dig the bones of my memories up to gnaw on them so I have something to write about.

I disturb them even though they no longer want to disturb me.  It’s a sickness, I suppose, being a writer.

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I’m on a road trip.  That means I need the definitive road trip music: Cross Canadian Ragweed’s Back to Tulsa: Live and Loud at Cain’s Ballroom.

Every time I drove across Oklahoma I blasted that album.  Every time but twice: the first time I drove to Dallas because I hadn’t yet realized that it was the definitive road trip album and the last time I drove from Dallas because I couldn’t play stuff from my mp3 player in my rented truck.

As it turns out, Cross Canadian Ragweed broke up last year.  I learned about it on Facebook.  Whoever was in charge of RCPM’s wall posted it while I was on my way back from seeing RCPM at the Wormy Dog Saloon.

Cross Canadian Ragweed sounds different in northern Illinois than it does in Oklahoma.  I can’t explain it, but they do.

Maybe I’m remembering it wrong, though.

Wouldn’t that be a kick in the teeth?

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[1]Those who know anything about traveling from Chicago to Madison are probably wondering at this.  I-90 is, after all, the more direct route to Madison.  But I was warned of construction.  And it’s actually a much bigger PITA to get from my parents’ house to I-90 than I-88, so the extra 19 miles actually only adds about 8 minutes to the trip.

Comments

[Fake Al Gore]

Dammit, man. You got me used to a once-a-month update schedule, and now I have two pages to read. Grr...

Hope Chicago is treating you as well as Dallas should have. Stay safe, and have fun.

[GailVortex]

I had to check the date on this post twice to be sure, but oddly enough I am reading this IN Madison, having a fun-filled week here for work.

Making it to the High Noon Saloon today is way unlikely, though.

[Geds]

Fake Al Gore: I do it because I hate you. Bwa ha ha and all that.

Gail: It's okay. I wrote that on Thursday. I, um, I didn't expect any of my three readers would be in Madison...

[Janet]

This lazy memory phenomenon is at the heart of what makes something art, and the separation between the high and the low. The reason comics and kitsch get labelled as low art is because they are filled with familiar symbols that our lazy brains readily interpret as composites of memories, rarely going through the effort of observation. Most will take it in with a casual glance, assume the message as read, and move on without ever being challenged. But an observer has the power to elevate low art to high art by putting in the extra effort to see the piece with fresh eyes. Having done that, one might still find nothing but a hastily assembled collection of symbols designed to trigger memory. Or, one might discover that the artist did challenge himself to actually see his subject, and not simply respond to the echoes of his own memory of the thing he was creating. Now we have found the high art hidden in the low. For many observers, Starry Night and the Mona Lisa have fallen to low art, because they are symbols now, reconstructed from memory and never really seen. The common ground between artists and art enthusiasts is a constant struggle to kick the lazy brain into motion. To observe a thing as if for the first time. To forget its name. To forget what you thought you knew about it. To let the art speak for itself, and force yourself to listen.

[Geds]

Janet: Huh. I was all set to disagree with you on that one. I'd somehow read your "The reason comics and kitsch get labelled as low art," as, "The reason comics and kitsch are low art."

But you're hitting on something (although, to be fair, I think there's a potential for crosswise terminology, as I'd drawn a distinction between "kitsch" and "art" in an attempt to erase the distinction between "high" and "low" art). Basically, it's the meaning, not the medium that counts. For instance, you could make a strong case that Calvin & Hobbes is art. I would, in fact, make that case. It has a style, substance, and weight that made it as culturally ubiquitous as a newspaper comic can possibly be. Ergo, art.

But those copyright infringing decals of Calvin lookalikes urinating on various things? Not art.

By the same token, I'd say that Garfield is not art. Garfield minus Garfield, however, is art.

[Janet]

My printmaking professor in college was strongly prejudiced against comic art and fantasy imagery. Being ignorant of that fact, for my second project in her class, I constructed a classic fantasy battle scene reminiscent of storybook illustration. I recall another student's comment just before the critique: "You made a dragon and a unicorn for Barbara?", implying that either of these subjects was capable of lowering my grade, and the two together would mark me as an enemy of fine art. Barbara had honed her craft as a master printer at Gemini G.E.L., and she remains possibly the most skilled artist I have ever met. I suppose she had seen many aspiring fantasy illustrators and comic book artists in her class, and come to despise their clumsy efforts to emulate Boris Vallejo or the Marvel House Style. But as it turned out, after grumbling a bit about the lowness of my chosen subject, Barbara gave me an A anyhow. Despite drawing upon a genre that wades knee-deep in cliche imagery, the prints were of good quality and the composition was original. She didn't necessarily like it, but she couldn't call it bad art. It is very difficult to grade art objectively. The best art should be fascinating. But we aren't all fascinated by the same things.