motorman

Dear Mr. Sexton,

I would, first, like to convey to you that I cannot begin to quantify my enjoyment from your music. Mostly, it is the emotion that you show in each and every song that keeps me coming back to every time you come to town. It is great that you tour so often and that you are receiving the recognition that you deserve. I am definitely a lifetime fan.

This being stated – please, please, please release a new album. Ummm, of new material, Christmas albums don’t count.

To illustrate my excitement over your new material, let’s return to a rainy October evening six years ago. I was more than half way home from evening class at the alma mater, when I remembered it was finally the day! I turned and made a b-line to one of Minneapolis’ great independent music stores Electric Fetus. I arrived, soaking wet, searching for a signpost to lock to the bike and walk into the Fetus. Dripping onto the wood floors, I receive prompt attention. “Can I help you find something?” Someone asks. “Do you have the new Martin Sexton?” “Yes, behind the counter, we have not priced enough today.” “Golden.” I purchase the Wonder Bar and ride like a pro home to hear it.

I roll up to my old apartment, store the ride, and move straight to the stereo. “What’s that in your hand?” my new girlfriend at the time says. Without comment I put in the disc, push play and hear, “Oh, I forgot it was out today, turn it up.” We spent the remainder of that evening and every evening for the next month thereafter listening to this great album.

Unfortunately that was six long years ago. I have traded my college days for a career, an apartment for a house and upgraded my girlfriend to my wife. In the Martin world, all I have had to hold onto since is a live album and megs and megs of concert recordings. Their excellence aside, new material is greatly needed.

I hope you all the best, and I commit to seeing you every time I can, but please feed my need for new tunes.

With respect and admiration,

motorman

This evening I went to the fridge to retrieve a snack and I saw some of that great flashback from youth (i.e. oh the comforts of youth). It is the grand processed American cheese – individually wrapped for your traveling pleasure. I grabbed a slice; okay two. As I have grown older I have developed a deadly appreciation for cheese. Motivation to saddle up on the bike, I guess. Unfortunately there is a bigger problem to the universe than simply the threat of premature coronary embolism, I regret to have to announce it here at motorman, where we work for, and assume, the intelligence of the human race, okay at least the minimal intelligence of Americans. For goodness sake – IT IS AMERICAN CHEESE.

Continuing to digress a bit, we Americans have a namesake cheese that for aficionados is (1) bland, (2) over processed, and (3) has yellow that does not appear naturally in the cheese world and maybe only in the world of Crayola.

I pull this slippery slice out off the stack turn it over and see imprinted on the packaging “OPEN HERE 2”.

I pause. Let’s all pause.

Okay, has life become that complicated that we need direction to open the cheese singles? Come on, I mean it was never that difficult. As I think about it I blame the lawyers for this new symbol of American culture. I know most of you think I should blame the schools. But you are wrong. Here is why – don’t matter how dumb you be, if you need to eat, you get the cheese open.

The way I see it, someone allegedly fractured a bone, lost sight, became deaf, or contracted Alzheimer’s due to the lack of proper instruction on the cheese packet. Some juris doctor recognized this travesty and acted. In addition to a payment for suffering clearer directions must occur on the package.

Well we have a newly improved national symbol, cheese baby.

This evening in the State of Minnesota we are taking a moment to remember Number 34. For those outside of the state, I am referring to Kirby Puckett. Kirby was pro sports to me as I grew up. He personified the hero in a uniform to a young kid. He put the team on his back to win the game. He stood at the line to sign every autograph that the fans needed. He acted as the face of an organization that was beloved in the state but was far from a premier league when he arrived. In true hero status he changed that status.

I grew up at Minneapolis where we have to endure baseball in the Metrodome. For those who have not graced the interior of this facility it is the most horrible venue for baseball, maybe any sport. However, going indoors in one of the coldest states in the lower 48 during a precious summer to watch baseball is insane until the PA announcer Bob Casey call out “Now batting the Centerfielder, Kirbyyyyy Puckettt!” Then it was worth the sacrifice.

Regardless of other events in his life I will always remember the baseball parts. Rest well Kirby!

This was the most unbelievable incident that I encountered in my decade of commuting to work. As crazy as it seems it is not fiction. I still cannot believe it occurred. So, what happened you might ask? Well here is how it all went down:

One summer morning three years ago I was on my way to work on a Monday, maybe a Tuesday. My route at that time went along a major industrial corridor in Minneapolis. This fateful morning I was stopped at the intersection of a busy county road waiting for the semaphore to change to green. It is about the halfway point of my commute, so I was in full “what do I need to do when I arrive at work” mode.

Then the fun started.

I was off to the right, one foot on the ground, examining the Colnago for a noise with a source that I could never identify. I hear an engine rev from the vehicle I could see behind me as I was looking down at the left crank. I stood, turned to see, and rev, rev, rev goes this beast of a vehicle. It was one of those dumpster haulers and it appears the driver was a bit excited. I realized that the guy was a bit irritated with my presence, but there was nothing I could do until the light turned. So I simply pointed to the illuminated red light to single to him that in a short matter of time I will no longer trouble him and his morning’s activities.

You will not believe what this joker does next.

I turn back to the intersection awaiting the light to turn green. I hear the vehicle door open and this lil’ fellar jumps out and approaches me. “It will only take two hits,” he mutters. I have a stunned look on my face (you would know it if you ever hit a deer with a Ford Escort hatchback). “What,” I responded in disbelief. “Yeah,” he continues, “only two, that is all it will take.” Again I am stunned, is this really happening? I want to reach out and touch him with my finger to see if he is real. I say, “What are you talking about?” He snaps, “It will only take two hits, me hitting you and you hitting the ground.”

I pause to continue to take this in. This is a guy, obviously a bit agitated, bedazzled with his company’s logo – hat, shirt, jacket logo, check – that is threatening a complete stranger in front of a handful of drivers queued up at the intersection for obeying traffic laws. I guess from his perspective if I was not in his way he could attempt a right on red with his three-ton garbage hauler into heavy morning rush traffic, maybe saving 60 to 90 seconds. But, time is money in waste management.

I respond to this twitchy superstar, “Are you serious?” He leans in a bit, “You’re just lucky, man, two hits that all it would take.” He turns back towards the rig and climbs into the cab. Continuing to be stunned and amazed, I look back at the truck. “So that is license plate number,” I think. What a clean get away. The light changes I proceed on my journey to work. I spend the entire day in amazement that this incident happened.

What a crazy lil’ fellar.