Of the 6,494 who plopped down 10K to participate in 2009's WSOP (World Series Of Poker) Main Event, only nine remain. Phil Ivey is still in the mix.
I've been following this guy since college. Many consider Ivey the greatest player in the game today, which ain't loose talk when you consider both his sterling tournament resume and his performance in high-stakes cash games. (I tend to agree with that "greatest player" assessment, though Canada's Daniel Negreanu is a verrrry close second in my book.) Ivey's a Rembrandt at the card table, but has never won the Main Event. He placed 10th in 2003.
[For some reason, the tournament directors pushed back the final stage of this year's Main Event to November 9th, so we'll have to wait 'til then to see how it all plays out. Of the nine finalists, Ivey is third-to-last in chips.]
It's harder and harder these days for a professional player to make it to the WSOP final table, seeing as the # of entrants has spiked dramatically since the fall of 2003 (<--link), when ESPN introduced Hold 'em Poker to the public en masse. In '03, 839 people--mostly poker pros--signed up for the tourney. By 2006 that number had ballooned tenfold, to 8,773.
Anyway, without further ado, let's cut to an Ivey clip. Check out this bluff:
In this week’s Village Voice, Mike Powell reviewed Wilco’s Wilco (The Album) and made me laugh so hard I damn near soiled myself. You, sir, are an entertaining read.
Here’s a few excerpts from the review:
“Wilco” is a five-letter word for the quiet slaughter of all that is elemental, passionate, and reverentially stupid about rock ‘n’ roll.
Their peak party moments sound like a good time as described by someone who hasn’t actually had one.
Wilco: The Band That Rocks, Within Reason.
I also didn’t understand what critics and friends meant when they would say things like, “Wilco are the American Radiohead.” Wilco are not the American Radiohead. Wilco are maybe six weary Jackson Brownes. Or what sandblasted jeans would say if they could talk*. Listening to Wilco is like finding a rainbow between gray and tan.
*great sentence.
My sentiments exactly. I’ve spent four or five years scratching my head over Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002), wondering how oh why that record achieved a perfect 10.0 rating from Pitchfork and countless “Album of the Year” honors.
That’s not to say it’s a shitty record. “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart” and the immaculately produced “Jesus, Etc.” are both brilliant, brilliant tracks, and the other nine--though quite boring--won’t harm you. No true gaggers to speak of. But I fail to understand why critic after breathless critic tripped over their own laces penning adulatory, idolatrous reviews that oughta be reserved for the Radioheads and, say, Will Oldhams of the music world…
…which set me to thinking about other grossly overpraised records. Here’s a short list of recent titles:
[Author's Note: Can't believe I missed a week. Been a busy man, and my Wi-Fi went out for six days. Anyway...I'm back.]
Eight of the nine customers who participated in last week's "Name Five Beatles Songs" pop quiz failed miserably. I'm concerned. Only one dude managed all five, but not before trying to pass off Abbey Road as a song, not an album. After me and my Paragon coworkers granted him a mulligan (in Golf Speak, mulligans are unpenalized 'do-overs' after poor shots), he pulled on through.
All this Beatle talk got me thinking. How many can I name?
For many, many years, the Beatles were my band. My father spun their LPs when I was 2 or 3 years old (fave songs at the time: "When I'm Sixty-Four," "Come Together," and "A Taste Of Honey"), so you can say I've grown up with them. In college I took a dream vacation to Liverpool (<--link here) and spent four days exploring sacred Beatle grounds. Along the way I read eight or ten biographies on the band, met Pete Best (drummer before Ringo) at Chicago's Beatlefest, attended a Paul McCartney concert at London's Earl's Court Theatre, and spent hours upon hours in small music shops poring over their records. I've at one time or another owned every U.S. Beatles release and have given each of them dozens, if not hundreds, of spins, so 100 songs didn't seem entirely out of the question.
Tally at one hour: 102. Not bad, I thought, but there's got to be a few dozen I'm leaving out. Later, while on the subway, I realized I'd neglected Magical Mystery Tour entirely, an unconscionable omission. Nine tracks brought the number to 111. Then I apprehended a few stragglers from Help and Please Please Me, and some singles ("Rain," "Day Tripper") that never appeared on a studio album. I kept at it, nose to grindstone.
Shortly after dinner, surrender.
137.
Of course I went back to check myself, anxious to see what'd been forgotten. Turns out a few BIGGIES were overlooked. Here's the short list:
"Can't Buy Me Love" "Eight Days A Week" "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" "The Long And Winding Road" "Hello Goodbye"
Strange.
I'd remembered "Wild Honey Pie," a one minute throwaway from The Beatles, but not "Happiness Is A Warm Gun," which is often cited as one of the strongest numbers on that record. When thinking of how best to size up my exclusion of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," I realized it'd be equivalent to compiling a list of the 50 states and leaving out only, say, Colorado. Sorry, George.
I didn't limit myself to Beatle originals (on their first two albums, many of the songs were covers), but chose not to exploit the live BBC Sessions, which probably would have yielded twenty more. After some deliberation, I decided both Past Masters records were fair game.
Isn't it amazing how well our brains receive music? Even if you're not a musical person (or even a casual fan), I'll bet you can sing or hum along to tunes you haven't heard in fifteen years. Think about that! Most of us probably can't remember the plot of a movie we saw six months ago, but we'll respond to a Sesame Street ditty that captivated us at 6. (Remember that kick-ass song about numbers by the Pointer Sisters? 1 2 3 4 5...6 7 8 9 10...11 12? I rediscovered it a few weeks ago after twenty years and recognized every note, every vocal inflection. The vid--which is a must see--has been attached at the base of this post.) We've all owned LPs/cassettes/CDs at one time or another. Think back to what you were listening to during your formative, adolescent years; chances are, many of those melodies will remain with you until late adulthood.
'Bout a month ago a friend lent me Daniel J. Levitin's This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession, a book which I'd highly recommend to any and all music nuts. Sometimes it's a bit overbearing, since it's so technical, but Levitin does an admirable job trying to explain the goings-on in our craniums as we listen. Humans store sound in impressive ways.
Anyone feel like quizzing themselves? How many songs from your favorite band can you name? Let's see what you got.
Also, if anyone out there can beat my Beatle total, your next beer is on me.
This afternoon, after an impulsive, wholly unnecessary food purchase (two heavily Parmesanned slices and a bottle of ginger ale) at Kingston Pizza, I headed down to the grocery and reached for a hand basket. Then I got lost in the aisles.
Some items taunted me more than others. A few multi-colored packages with recognizable names (they were very pretty, and positioned at eye-level) badmouthed their generic opponents and muttered something about standards of quality, but I dismissed their propagandistic ways. In all things sport (and food), I pull for the underdog.
The cereals were particularly aggressive. I told them to shut up. They hissed and hissed. Things became confused, like. What to buy?
After a few tense minutes I re-emerged at the front of the store and didn’t know what else to do, so I got in the checkout line. My hand basket wasn’t empty any more. Now there were some random items in it. (Shopping lists are for pussies.) I stood there in line and looked down at the basket to see what made the cut, since your guess is as good as mine.
Here’s what I discovered:
1) One half gallon of milk
2) One box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese
3) One brick of sharp cheddar cheese
I’m not making this up. Those were the items. Jesus, I thought, what the hell is wrong with me? I go from a pizza lunch to--this? My poor body.
“Ma’am,” I yelled, motioning to the cashier, “what sorta scam are you running here? Where’s the veggies? All you sell are dairy products! You should be ashamed of yourselves! How’s a guy to scare up a square meal in this town? I have half a mind to…”
“Right over there, sir,” she replied. “Behind you. Next to the fruits.”
“Ahhh hell,” I said.
As I type this, I'm drinking from a glass of milk. God help me. ...
This is my 64th entry. [An aside: Whenever I see that number, I immediately think of McCartney’s “When I’m Sixty-Four."] The first was posted on July 29, 2008.
I’ve been at this thing for almost a year.
Because I’m a very slow writer, this blog has been as laborious as it’s been rewarding. In many instances, I commence an entry on Monday, only to wrap it on a Wednesday. That’s why I post only once a week. The words never come out just right the first time through, so I revise, revise, revise to avoid offering up a sloppy, incomplete entry. Even now, I find myself correcting posts from four, five months ago. In all things blog, I’m a neurotic perfectionist.
When you factor in the time I spend scouring Flickr for appropriate images, or even the endless minutes tweaking the HTML code (bolding words, italicizing others, spacing out the paragraphs correctly, embedding links/videos, etc.), my blog becomes a part-time job in itself.
I don’t get paid for this. My blog offers zero return, monetarily speaking, and I’d guess that less than forty people read each entry. Why, then, do I dedicate so many of my hours to this thing?
Well, there’s a few reasons:
1) My ego's a paunchy glutton, so I thrive on feedback. When readers take the time to message me, their words make the whole process worthwhile. (Now I just have to get better about responding to their responses. Sorry, people. I’ll try to step up my game.)
2) Like most humans, I want to be thought of as an intelligent person. Since I rarely feel as if I say anything worthwhile in everyday conversation, I’ve turned to the page to express myself more eloquently. See, my brain works slowly. There’s a lotta information crammed up there, but oftentimes it takes me minutes, hours, days to retrieve it. Improvisation ain’t my bag.
3) I enjoy the struggle. Writing, as mentioned above, does not come easily to me. Though I pride myself on the finished product, I’m not blessed with the writing powers of, say, a Lester Bangs [Bangs, a prolific music critic who I previously cited in this entry, would take assloads of amphetamine and churn out six, eight pages of copy in mere minutes. Then, striking the final key, he’d rip the paper from the typer and place it--without a hint of hesitation--on his editor’s desk. Bangs’ coworkers observed this process many times over and marvelled at his speed, since the manuscripts were unfailingly brilliant and required little, if any, revision].
Writing humbles me on a daily basis, but I’m rather proud of the voice I’ve developed. Every step of the process--my choice of topic, the hours spent over a Word document, transferral to the blog page, image selection--is deeply satisfying, and I feel as an architect must when of his own designs becomes a physical, fully-realized structure.
4) Up until recently, I've been a bit of a transient. Since graduation in ’04, I’ve worked for 50+ companies, lived in four different towns/cities, and fallen in and out with countless groups of friends and acquaintances. In keeping a blog, I provide myself the illusion of stability, since I’m posting at semi-regular intervals. These entries neutralize the madness that is New York City and afford me welcome respite from all these urban volatilities. In other words, my blog is a constant in an otherwise inconsistent life.
The next bullet point is the biggee.
5) I write because someday I’m going to die. It’d be a shame to check out and leave nothing behind. Sure, I’d exist in the memories of any remaining friends and family (a thought which provides some small measure of solace), but--frankly--I’m more interested in marking my existence in a permanent, calcified way. (I understand that a blog ain’t tangible, but it will be accessible long after my physical body expires…which, in this digital age, is the next best thing.)
If you think these moribund thoughts don’t frighten me, you’re crazy. Consider: I’m admitting that I write not to convey information and/or provide a fresh take on a given topic, though these are two qualities I'd assume to be pre-reqs for any real writer! On the contrary, I’ve suggested that I’m writing solely for myself, so that I might gain the favor of others by showcasing my talents. Aren’t artists supposed to be above all this? Don’t writers write because they’d burst if they didn’t let it all out? Don’t writers write for noble, worldly reasons, so as to contribute to the betterment of society?
Well, I’d like to think I’m not alone in my solipsism. Surely I’m not the first would-be writer to struggle with this. Perhaps that’s why many writers become nihilistic, self-destructive alcoholics. It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? We’re taught from a young age to be selfless and altruistic. When our actions so flagrantly contradict these teachings (especially when these actions are intimately tied to our core work), what emotion assumes a domineering position in our psyche? One word: Guilt.
That’s not to say all writers are selfish bastards, nor is that to say I’m a selfish bastard. There’s a lot of grey in there. I realize that, in attempting this entry, I’ve painted myself into a corner. To say I don’t care about ideas and information is a gross oversimplification. I do care, just not as much as I feel I ought to. On Sunday, I said these words to a friend: “Sometimes, in order to complete a blog entry, I adopt enthusiasms that are not my own.” I quickly explained myself, saying, “It’s not that I’m lying. It’s not that at all. I believe what I write, but sometimes I seem more invested in a certain topic than I actually am.”
An example might be the Kid Rock entry. Yes, I hate that effing song. Yes, it makes me irrationally angry. But do I care that it’s out there, that it exists? Not really. In order to write a plump, full blog with just the right dosage of embittered snarkery, though, I had to adopt a voice. So I did. And I ran with it. That’s what I mean by “enthusiasms that are not my own.” I wrote that bit for purposes of entertainment and ego-stroking, not because "All Summer Long" was ruining my life. In the grand spectrum, that stupid song doesn't mean anything, and hardly warranted even ten minutes of my time.
I’d assume many of the great writers and thinkers (Nietzsche (pic at right), Joyce, Orwell, just to name a few) cared much about social justice and the order of things, which suggests that I may be more self-centered than most. I’ve created this entry with the full realization that I’m not speaking for writers as a whole.
Why do artists create?
Writers/bloggers/painters/musicians, what drives you? Please contribute…I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.
[Author's Note: I'm including pics that are in no way tied to the written content of this entry, since I can't think of an appropriate visual theme. Just for the heck of it, I've posted photographs of Bauhaus (the goth band, not the German art school).]
As some of you may know, I’ve been writing artist bios on the side for extra money. (Artist bios are typically posted under the “ABOUT ME” section on a musician’s MySpace page and sent out--with a hard copy of their latest album--to promoters/music mag editors/radio stations.)
If someone requests my services, I in turn ask them for relevant background information (hometown, musical training, influences, core aesthetic, etc.) and song samples, and then set to work creating a personalized bio.
My rates are negotiable. Ideally, I should be collecting $100 for a page-long bio, but that hasn’t happened yet. When I write for friends, for example, I hesitate to charge the full amount. In other instances, I’m writing for musicians who either don’t have much money (in which case we meet in the middle), or would rather not pay at all, thank you very much. Rachelle* falls into the latter category.
*So as to avoid a potential ass-beating, I've changed her name.
Rachelle, a young singer/songwriter who specializes in oversexualized dance music, is based out of the Bronx. She found me on Craigslist. (I'd attached multiple writing samples--including this blog’s URL--to a short bio of my own, marketing myself as a freelancer.) Rachelle was my first nibble.
Her agent, Deb (name also changed), was the one who actually contacted me. We discussed length (three or four paragraphs) and payment ($80). Later that day, she forwarded along Rachelle's outdated MySpace page and a few phrases she wanted included in the final product.
I completed Draft #1 a few days later. Deb received it, raved about it, asked me to correct two or three minor points. Later that day, I revised and re-sent.
Then I didn’t hear from her for awhile. Hmm. I’m calling, I’m e-mailing, I’m leaving polite messages. Nothing.
Late March, after a number of days, I finally get her on the phone. Deb, says I, what the eff? (Ok, I didn’t say that.) She: "Mike, it's a fantastic bio! Very professional. I want to make sure you get your money...how does April 6th sound?" "Uhhhh," says I, "why so late? That’s ten days away!" "Well," says she, "I don’t get paid ‘til the 5th." (This, readers, is when I realized I’d been thoroughly suckered.) She: "Anyway, what was the price we agreed on? $60?" Me: "No, $80. Eighty dollars." She: "Can I give you $60?"
Now the ol’ blood pressure is spiking, but I intend to get SOMETHING outta the deal, so I warily agree. Fine, Deb, $60, sure, whatever. The sixth, you say? I’ll come and pick it up that afternoon. She: "Ok."
You know the story from here. Sixth rolls around. I call. Nothing. Send off an e-mail. Nothing. Every other day, I leave a voicemail. (This goes on for two full weeks.) Finally, I reach my breaking point and drop this in her inbox:
DEB. I'm going to get the $ from you, one way or another. If I have to, I'll come to Rachelle's next NY show to collect. Please show me some respect and return my messages.
Looking back, I could've been a bit wiser in my choice of words. It actually shames me that I stooped to that. Live and learn, I guess.
Two days later, I somehow get her on the phone. Now it’s war. She cites the above e-mail and accuses me of threatening her. Me: “Listen, Deb, you’ve failed to respond to any of my messages, which would lead any sane person to believe that you’re not intending to pay me. I understand the wording could've been a bit softer in that e-mail. For that, I apologize. The sentiment, though, was pretty spot-on. I intend to receive payment. Because you dropped off the face of the Earth, you left me no choice but to show up at a gig or something and approach you face-to-face. If I want to collect, what other choice do I have?”
She freaks: “We don’t want your damn bio! We ain't using it! I ain’t paying you no $60 for no bio! Hold on, my husband wants to talk to you.” So she puts him on. We speak for five minutes. Nice guy. At the end of the convo, he even calls me ‘buddy,’ which kind of surprises me.
After giving me a stern talking-to about how to treat a woman (I again apologize for the e-mail), he assures me the bio won't be used. Fine, I say. Not a problem. Situation diffused. I hang up the phone.
Well, two days ago (and 2+ weeks after my convo with the hubby) I go to Rachelle’s fresh, revamped web page, and my bio--shore nuff--is displayed front and center. If you want to see the link, please e-mail/message me. I'd rather not post it in my blog.
Another phone call. I ask her what the eff. Deb begins to shout. Me: "Listen, Deb, either take it down or cough up the dough. I'm not a sucker." She hangs up on me, mid-sentence.
So I sent this e-mail:
Hi Deb--
The last thing I want is a fight. Please hear me out:
If you want to use the bio for Rachelle's homepage, you're welcome to it. All I ask, then, is $60, which is the rate that we agreed on. If you remove the bio from her page, there's no issue, and you don't owe me a dime. Pretty simple.
Why haven't you responded to my messages? I know you're reading these e-mails. If the bio is not removed from her page by this Friday (6/5), I'll be contacting my lawyer. Please show some courtesy to someone who provided you a service.
I'm not a bad guy, Deb...I just don't like being taken advantage of. How would you like to be stiffed out of payment? I'm not writing these things for my health.
Thanks for your time. I'll be checking her page throughout the week to see if she's taken it down.
Mike
I don't have a lawyer.
The money's now of secondary concern; this is about something else entirely. When you get right down to it, I'm seeking recognition for my work. Call it justice. (Ayn Rand would be proud of me for fighting the good fight, though she'd probably scold me for not foreseeing this whole debacle.)
The employee lunch break policy at Paragon is as follows:
A) If working less than 6 hours, you are NOT (not!) entitled to a break. No sir! Should one politely approach a floor manager, however, odds are on the fat side of the scale that he’ll (she’ll? Let’s don't be sexist…) find someone to cover your department for 15 minutes, which is more than enough time to retrieve a tissue from your pants pocket, blow your nose, and return tissue to pocket. The ambitious might even dare a sip of water from the fountain (located in right rear of store, one hundred and twelve paces from the golf department).
B) If working 6-8 hours, you are awarded a 30 minute break. Well, most of the time. In truth, break length varies depending on whether you’re scheduled as a full- or part-time employee. The managers mentioned something about this at the last morning meeting, but I wasn’t really listening all too good. Seeing as I’m part-time and whatnot, perhaps I’m only allotted 15 minutes (is this conceivable/humane?!), even during a 7 hour shift. Maybe I've been at it all wrong, taking these mastodonian breaks. But I'm a renegade, baby. The drummer in my head plays half-hour sets. So it goes.
C) If working over 8 hours, you are entitled to a full hour. Not sure how the whole full- vs. part-time thing plays into this. Perhaps the managers oughta put these directives into writing?
Chris Rock:
“You know how you can tell you got a real bad job? (Pause.) When you get that half-hour lunch break. By the time you put on your jacket, walk around the corner, go to the sandwich spot, order a sandwich, wait for them to make it, then get in another line to pay for it, TWENTY EIGHT MINUTES have passed! Now you’re rushing back to work, you’re eating your sandwich, you’re spilling beer down your shirt, and when you get in your boss has the nerve to say, ‘Hey man, you’re eight minutes late.’ ‘Fuck you!’”
I know the half-hour break all too well; it’s been part of my routine for more than a few months. But I’ve got a system (which, admittedly, looks and sounds a lot like the scenario Chris described above). Let's break it down:
1) One, first: Decide on a restaurant. My options, of course, are limited to those eateries--Chipotle, GoodBurger, Chop't (salad joint), Dogmatic (gourmet sausage place)--within a two-block radius. Should I, like a reckless fool, choose to venture deeper into the East Village, I perform a routine check of the ol' laces to assure their tautness, so as to avoid a mid-jog wardrobe malfunction.
2) Remove nametag (required flair) and Save 15% Of The Difference button (more flair, and please don't ask), put in left pants pocket. Fold morning daily to crossword page. Place pen in right pants pocket, tip down, so as to make for a faster, more efficient de-holstering when I turn my attentions to the crossword.
3) Proceed to punch clock. Wait until digital time thingy turns from one minute to the next before swiping out, so as to maximize my 30 mins.
4) Swipe.
5) Haul ass up the stairs (time clock is located in the lower level, twenty seconds from the front door), bowling over/elbowing slow-moving tourists.
6) Jaywalk across street, traffic be damned.
7) Order salad/chicken sandwich/burger/taco/turkey club, breathlessly.
8) Pay, frantically.
9) Wait.
10) Wait a bit more.
11) Receive salad/chicken sandwich/burger/taco/turkey club, jog to nearest available table.
12) Eat/graze. (No time to chew, or for proper utensils.)
13) Complete two items in crossword puzzle. (Clues: Giants slugger (answer: Ott) and fencing weapon (answer: epee).)
14) Check time on cell phone. (Twenty-three minutes have passed.)
15) Dab lips with napkin.
16) Deposit contents of tray into garbage can.
17) Jaywalk.
18) Bust into front door of store with elbow. Half-run/half-walk to stairs, half-run/half-walk down stairs, turn corner, elbow through another door, remove time card from wallet (hands shaking all the while), slide time card through machine. Report to golf department.
... Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long” (U.S. release date: April 25, 2008) is the worst song of all time.
You’ve all heard it, even if you haven’t. I’ll attach it here, ‘case you’re feeling particularly masochistic:
What Kid basically does is weld together (is that redundant?) two snoozers, Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s omnipresent “Sweet Home Alabama,” passing off the end result as an original creation. Both riffs are shamelessly plagiarized, but not in a cool, schizophrenic, Beastie Boys/Girl Talk sorta way (sampled briefly, and for a singular desired effect); rather, Kid milks these tunes ‘til the udders chap and crack, offering up nothing from his own teat.
Having stolen his backing music, Kid half-talks/half-sings for a few minutes about women, beer, and youthful debauchery, pausing only for gutless guitar solos and keyboard plunkeries that are exact facsimiles (again…redundant?) of every solo ever.
The resulting mashup represents The Death Of All That Is Well And Good, musically speaking.
Though Kid is the foulest, most odiferous dingleberry (slang. a small clot of dung, as clinging to the hindquarters of an animal) in this great tragedy, a few others deserve mention:
1)Mike E. Clark.
Clark, who co-produced the track, was the wanker who suggested “Werewolves” and “Alabama”--two of the most stale, overplayed songs on classic rock radio--as viable mash options. Wikipedia, Mike Elwood’s one-stop research destination (sue me), tells me Clark’s also produced nine studio albums for the Insane Clown Posse, which is kinda hilarious. Recession casualty Blender (whose print edition is, as of April 2009, defunct) once rated Insane Clown Posse the Worst Band Of All Time. (#2: Emerson, Lake & Palmer.) Now, it’d be easy for me to take a shot at Clark for producing the WBOAT, but that’d be lazy, reprehensible blogging on my end, seeing as I’ve never really listened to the Insane Clown Posse. Therefore, I won't hold that against him. Mike E. Clark--ICP or no ICP--is still a jerk, though, for contributing to “All Summer Long” and encouraging such destructive, irresponsible mashupping.
2)The Listening Public.
“All Summer Long” went #1 in a number of countries, which just goes to show that people will listen to A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G. Seriously, Public, are you really this easy to please? Have you no standards? If this is “good,” what’s “bad?” Where’s the line? Do you not have one? And don’t FOR A SECOND tell me you “like everything,” because you do not. That ain’t human. When we stop discriminating between shite art and real art, the world begins to die, one brain cell at a time.
3)Kid Rock’s High School English Teachers.
Try these lyrics on for size: “And we were trying different things/We were smoking funny things.” Is it legal to rhyme ‘things’ with ‘things?’ Or how ‘bout this: “She was seventeen/And she was more than in-between.” Understand? Me neither.
4)Anthony DeCurtis.
DeCurtis, a contributing editor at Rolling Stone magazine, wrote a review. Here’s his incisive analysis of this seminal, genre-defining track:
(Kid) Rock shows his wistful side, too. "All Summer Long" takes its inspiration from "Night Moves," by Bob Seger (Kid's Michigan idol), mashing up the piano lick from "Werewolves of London" with bits of "Sweet Home Alabama" for a story of sexual awakening. It's stirring stuff.
Stirring stuff? I challenge you, Mr. DeCurtis, to identify even one (1) element of this song that is aurally or intellectually “stirring” on ANY level. Call it listenable, call it harmless, call it light, call it a “feel-good summer track” (ack), but do NOT call it "stirring." Shame on you.
Sorry for being so curmudgeony and embittered, but I’m forced to listen to this damn song every day at Paragon. Perhaps, given this new bit of information, you might forgive me? Paragon’s all about the Top 40. All the time. I hear Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” literally once an hour. Seeing as I’ve been on the clock for 240 hours since my hiring… ...
I’ve kissed Judd Nelson, that dude from The Breakfast Club. (Pic at right).
Not directly, mind you. But I’ve kissed a girl (and I liked it!) who once made out with country singer Keith Urban at a party. Keith dated superfox Niki Taylor intermittently from 2002-2004, and is now married to Nicole Kidman, a well-known actress and albino.
Kidman’s other bedpost notches include Lenny Kravitz, Robbie Williams, and possibly Adrien Brody (to be fair, the latter was an unsubstantiated rumor). Her most cavernous, conspicuous notch, of course, is the sometimes affable, sometimes maniacal Tom Cruise, whom (did I use "whom" correctly?) she married in 1990. They divorced in 2001.
British pop star Robbie Williams once dated model/actress Rachel Hunter (pictured).
Hunter married irrelevant cheeseball and housewife panty-dropper Rod Stewart in 1990. They separated in 1999. She’s also bedded Bruce Willis, Kevin Costner, some dude named Michael Weatherly (I’ve lazily copped all this info from Wikipedia, ‘case you haven’t noticed), Oasis’ Liam Gallagher, and perennial bad boy Tommy Lee.
Tommy Lee slept with half of America while touring behind Crue in the 80s. He also married Heather Locklear in 1986. (Divorce: 1993). Two years later, he married Pamela Anderson. They called it quits in 1998.
Anderson has been married three times. Tommy Lee was the first, followed by scrum maggot Kid Rock and a guy named Rick Solomon. (You may remember him from the Paris Hilton sex tape.)
Solomon had a thing with Paris, as mentioned, but also with 90210’s Shannon Doherty. They married in 2002 and divorced one year later.
Shannon Doherty was also engaged to Judd Nelson, but the wedding never took place.
Syllogistically, I've had my tongue in Judd Nelson's mouth. Must admit, I'm rather surprised Kevin Bacon's name didn't pop up. ...
I tumbled out, naked and triumphant, on December 6, 1982, shortly after my father and mother were pulled over by a police officer for exceeding the posted speed limit on a four lane highway. They received no penalty, though, because my mother was about to lose nearly ten pounds (me) in just under an hour.
Sometimes the law doesn’t mean anything at all. Sometimes the urgency of the moment demands a breach of legal contract. The world is not cut-and-dry.
In this particular case, my parents couldn’t afford to color inside the lines. The situation forebade it. See, I was sick of placentas and whatnot. I wanted out. I’d been kicking and hollering. My dad did the right thing; he pressed the gas pedal all the way to the mat, ignoring the numbers on the signs. He pretended they weren’t even there, or that they said 85 instead of 55. All the while my mom breathed, very carefully.
Anyway, they (cops, pigs, 5-0, po-po) pulled him over for violating the Law, which is written down in books and on those black and white signs all down the highway. When the officer approached the driver’s side window, prepared to tell my father that he’d screwed up, my dad pointed at my mom’s belly. That was enough. The officer ran back to his vehicle, flipped on his emergency lights, and escorted them to the delivery room. That was twenty-six years ago. Just now (10:48 Eastern Standard time on May 4, 2009), I phoned my mother in LaGrange Park, IL to ask if I was born with hair. “A little,” she said, “but not much. You looked like E.T.”
My hair was blonde, once. I know from the pictures, which are pressed into faux leather albums and shelved according to year in the nether bowels of our dining room Lladro cabinet. Up until the age of four or five, my hair was blonde. I guess I mentioned that already in the first sentence of this paragraph.
Then shit got weird. My forehead began to expand and broaden, but the rest of my face didn’t catch up. On a proportional human being, eyes are located halfway between the crown of the head and the tip of the chin. Go to a mirror. See for yourself.
I'm the exception. For many, many years, my eyes were where most people’s cheeks are. In the words of Matt Dillon’s character in There’s Something About Mary, I “had a forehead like a drive-in movie theater.”
To compound matters, my hair began to grow straight up, rather than falling across my forehead like a normal person’s. A fearsome cowlick developed in the mess of hair above my right eyebrow. Nothing--not spittle, not gel, not a tightened baseball cap--tamed it. That two-inch wide patch fought gravity at every turn. As you might imagine, I looked ridiculous. Cute, yes, but ridiculous nonetheless. Suddenly, inexplicably, I found myself cursed with an eight-inch forehead and indecisive hair that assumed the shape of a sine wave.
Then fifth grade came around. I grew into my forehead, finally. To mark the occasion, I buzzed off most of my hair and rocked one of those squarish, militaristic, Mickey Mantle crewcuts that went out of style sometime in ’62 or ’63.
By this point, my hair had darkened into a deep brown, as it is today. Not sure what precipitated that cosmetic change (diet? lack of sun exposure?), but it was probably for the best. Blonde hair doesn’t suit me.
The man who cut my hair back in Illinois was from not from this country. He was from another country. Poland, maybe, or perhaps Italy. I’m pretty sure his name was Carmen. He was a barber, not a stylist, and he was pretty old. Nice guy, very cheery. When he spoke (which was rare), I didn’t understand a damn word, even though those words were English. His accent proved inpenetrable, so I just stopped trying after awhile.
Carmen’s barber shoppe was a barber shoppe, all right; it even had one of those cylindrical candy canes rotating outside, like in the movies. After Carmen finished the trim, he’d use a vacuum on my neck to suck up any rogue hairs that hadn’t made the floor, and then he’d reward me with a palmful of free Bazooka Joe bubble gums (the $.05 ones that come with a wax comic) at the register. Eight dollars for a buzz. Carmen rung up the sale on a machine that may have been around before the first World War.
Oh yes, before I forget:
After Carmen vacuumed my neck and removed the cape, he’d reach for a small stick of product that looked and smelled a lot like roll-on deoderant and gel the front of my hair, effectively pushing it straight up and freezing it into place. Now the whole front of my squared head was a short, angular cowlick, which meant that I was doomed to gilfriendlessness for another few months.
I maintained that hairstyle for all of the fifth grade. Also, sixth. And seventh grade. Eighth grade, too. And all of high school. And the first year of college.
Then, sophomore year, something happened to me. I decided the Mickey Mantle cut was no longer suiting my needs. Since arriving to college, I’d (re-)discovered Floyd, Zeppelin, Sabbath and all the other classic rock delinquents, so it seemed natural that I rockify my style a bit and adopt the look. The summer before my sophomore year, I stopped cutting my hair and expanded my wardrobe. Shelving my rugby shirts and button-downs, I invested in band t-shirts and jeans that eventually bore holes in the knees.
The mop got impressively shaggy. Within a few months, my ears were no longer visible, and the hair in front of my eyes, when stretched, reached all the way to my mouth. It began to curl, too. Have you seen Almost Famous? I looked just like the kid journalist.
Reaction was mixed. My parents hated it, naturally, but some of my friends really dug it. Girls began paying more attention me. I felt more attitudinal. Long hair presents some obvious problems, though. Here’s a few:
1) For every twenty days, one or two are legitimate “Good Hair Days.” The rest are a blinded punch in the dark. Maybe I’ll connect; maybe I won’t.
2) My hair, because it’s so thick (barbers have told me that it’s some of the thickest they’ve ever cut) and strawlike, does not respond well to humidity. On warm, sticky days, my hair gets LARGE.
3) Every time I wash my hair, it looks downright crappy for 48 hours afterwards. I used to combat this problem by going a week or more between washings, but that brought on a whole other slew of problems.
4) Sometimes people get married. Married people tend to like clean-cut people at their weddings.
5) Employers tend to like clean-cut people at their businesses.
6) Four out of five people on the street assume I’m a stoner.
7) I can’t fall out of bed and roll into public. Not with eight-inch hair.
8) I’m forced to wear a stocking cap immediately after showering, so that my hair will dry in the appropriate manner.
With few exceptions, I’ve maintained this shaggy look for seven or eight years. It’s my trademark. My calling card.
If you’re wondering why I just wrote an entire post about hair, I’ll tell you why:
Two days ago, I got my hair cut.
It used to look like this:
Now, it looks like this:
Notice that in Picture #2, the mullet's been isolated and conquered. Here I am, ladies. Come and get it. ...
Sometimes my musical myopia astounds me. Seeing as I long ago hypnotized myself into thinking I’m an authority of some kind in all things rock (I’m wrong, of course; New York tends to humble the prideful), I’ve become that asshole who utters inanities such as this without batting an eyelash:
“Bruce Springsteen? Ehhh. I mean, I guess his quiet, contemplative stuff deserves attention. Nebraska's 'State Trooper' (1982) is admittedly flawless, as is ‘I’m On Fire.’ A few other tracks warrant repeat listens. Vocally, he did some interesting things on ‘Streets Of Philadelphia,’ what with that chopped, restrained delivery. e.e. cummings probably would have appreciated Bruce’s curious line breaks. Very poetic. His louder cuts, though--all those bombastic, 4/4, arena anthems--bore the hell outta me. ‘Glory Days’ and ‘Born To Run’ receive far too much credit from the listening community, seeing as both are oversimplified rock songs tailored for mass consumption. Spare me the blue-collar, bolt-turning sentiment, Bruce.”
(I’m not this eloquent, of course. In truth, it comes out like this:)
“Bruce? Not a big fan. I like ‘I’m On Fire’ and ‘State Trooper.’ Spare me the rest.”
Satisfied with Me, and Myself, and My Smug Analysis Of Bruce’s Merits And Demerits, I pronounce my verdict with the finality of a--well, a sentencing. And why wouldn’t I? I’m right. Bruce gets the ol’ Side Thumb.
Then, as tends to happen, I encounter a track/album that negates all my original premises; now there's a foot in my mouth, and it don't taste none too good. So it goes. (Note to KP: Glad you picked up on KV. Rock star.)
that track/ was Pink Cadillac
Holy Jamole! Have you people heard this thing? Bruce freakin’ nails it! Rock and roll never sounded so good!
There I was, fine-toothing my music collection so that I might assemble a listenable, digestible playlist for Friday’s DJ set, when I rediscovered this slumbering ox. (I'd previously dismissed it as a Paint By Numbers snoozefest.) What a track! Never even made it onto a proper record, if you can believe it. Instead, the song was shoved off to the B-Side of “Dancing In The Dark,” Bruce’s most successful single off Born In The U.S.A. (1984).
Other day, I found myself in my friend Lucas’ room. We were sharing tunes, as is our custom.
Me: “Lucas, I’m going nuts over Springsteen’s ‘Pink Cadillac.’ The rhythm section is mindblowing.” Lucas: “Oh man! Great song! Play it now!”
So I did. We bobbed and nodded and smiled and said things like “Damn!” and "Yes!”
Lucas: “Dude, have you ever considered that this song might be all about sex? Think about it…”
So we listened to a few lyrics. Even looked ‘em all up online. I still wasn’t convinced.
Me: “Eh, you may be overreaching here. I get the whole car-as-sex metaphor, but it seems a little forced in this case. I think he was talking about soda fountain, poodle skirt, Make-Out Point America. I mean, ‘Waving to the girls/Spending all my money on a Saturday night?’ That’s pretty ambiguous. A pink Cadillac would fit into that whole scheme. You know, kind of like a Pleasantville vibe, or something. Maybe I’m wrong, but…”
We reached no resolution.
Then I went home, listened up some more, revisited the lyrics. Here they are:
You may think I'm foolish For the foolish things I do You may wonder how come I love you When you get on my nerves like you do Well baby you know you bug me There ain't no secret 'bout that Well come on over here and hug me Baby I'll spill the facts Well honey it ain't your money 'Cause baby I got plenty of that I love you for your pink Cadillac Crushed velvet seats Riding in the back Oozing down the street Waving to the girls Feeling out of sight Spending all my money On a Saturday night Honey I just wonder what you do there in back Of your pink Cadillac Pink Cadillac
Well now way back in the Bible Temptations always come along There's always somebody tempting Somebody into doing something they know is wrong Well they tempt you, man, with silver And they tempt you, sir, with gold And they tempt you with the pleasures That the flesh does surely hold They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple But man I ain't going for that I know it was her pink Cadillac (^^^^^!) Crushed velvet seats Riding in the back Oozing down the street Waving to the girls Feeling out of sight Spending all my money On a Saturday night Honey I just wonder what it feels like in the back Of your pink Cadillac Now some folks say it's too big And uses too much gas Some folks say it's too old And that it goes too fast But my love is bigger than a Honda It's bigger than a Subaru Hey man there's only one thing And one car that will do Anyway we don't have to drive it Honey we can park it out in back And have a party in your pink Cadillac
I was wrong, obviously. Bruce, like Marc Bolan before him, uses the car as a metaphor for sex Sex SEX. (For an equally entertaining automobile-as-woman song, check out T Rex’s “Jeepster.”)
My question:
Is the whole band in on it? In other words, before the E Street Band laid down “Pink Cadillac," did Bruce offer, “Hey, Max (Weinberg, the only E Street Bander I know), I’ve written another song; it's about sex. On the surface, though, it'll be about an old Cadillac. Whaddya think?” Is that how it went down?
The other options, of course, are these:
1) Band recognizes what he’s doing, lyrically speaking, but there’s no discussion about it. They lay down the track, Bruce lays down the vocal, everybody goes home. No questions asked.
2) Band doesn’t pick up on the bald-faced double entendres, just as the three other members of Joy Division didn't pick up on Ian Curtis' blatant cries for help when they cut Closer (1980). (Curtis committed suicide shortly after the final tracks were laid down. Even a cursory inspection of his lyrics suggests a man in crisis.)
3) Mike has been wrong all along; there ARE no double entendres. This song is about a vehicle. (Hiiiiighly doubtful, though, considering the crotchal pyrotechnics Bruce displays in the attached vid (below)).
If you don’t own the studio version of this track, acquire it NOW. Steal it, buy it, borrow it. Raunchy rock at it's finest.
I’ve always been a few years behind the culture curve.
Probably won’t surprise any of you that I was the last of my friends to acquire a cell phone. My current phone lacks a plastic protector for the battery, which dislodges when I slam the flip too quickly. (I lost that little plastic piece on the day I walked the length of Manhattan. <--Click the link.) Sometimes the screen goes inexplicably white. No clue how to silence the phone, so I’m forced to settle for vibrate when I’m at church. An iPhone it ain’t.
During my epic roadtrip with Travis Brooks at the tail end of 2005 (Chicago, New York, Baltimore, Miami, Key West, New Orleans, Nashville, Louisville, Munsey), he introduced me to MySpace, YouTube and Wikipedia, three websites which I had never even heard of. Frightening, no? Old people with dust covers on their couches are more internet-savvy than I.
In keeping with the Mike-Is-Woefully-Behind-The-Times theme, I should probably explain my latest venture. Back in the fall, recognizing my own ignoramity in all matters film (my friends are all buffs), I converted to this dude known as “Netflix,” a keen, magical samaritan who teams with the United States Postal Service to deliver movies to my place of residence. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. I immediately set out to defeat Netflix at his own game, scarfing films at blitzkrieg rates in hopes of getting the best bang for my $8.99/month buck. By my calculations, I’d be able to get in 7+ movies per month, assuming I watched them the day they arrived and popped them in a mailbox the following morning.
It all started out so smoothly. In those first weeks, I viewed a number of classics--The Godfather, Psycho, Raging Bull--that I’d never gotten around to renting. Rosemary’s Baby, too. That was a good one. Since this marked my first committed foray into the medium, I consumed these films with an enthusiasm bordering on psychosis. See, I’ve never been a movie guy. Music guy, yes. Literature guy, absolutely. Painting, sure. Film, though, has always been my artistic Achilles Heel. I’ve never even seen The Goonies, which makes some people very angry.
Anyway, I watched a shitload of classic films. This went on for a couple months. Then Cool Hand Luke arrived. This was in January. Cool Hand Luke is still sitting on my shelf. I’m looking at it now. There’s actually a layer of dust on the surface of the envelope.
Netflix, you asshole. You knew my weaknesses. You knew this would happen. Now I’ve got a $40 film on my bookcase, which better be the best goddamn film I’ve ever seen. Probably won’t return it ‘til July. If it weren’t for jerkoffs like me, you wouldn’t be in business. Kiss my hairy keister.
... Poker played a significant role in my life for nearly three years.
For a brief (1:33) video about the basics of Texas Hold ‘Em poker, click here. I don’t feel like typing it all out.
I first learned the subtleties of the game back in ’03 when Chris Moneymaker (his real name, if you can believe it) won the World Series of Poker and sparked a bit of a boom. For a few days that summer, I watched ESPN with rapturous attention while Moneymaker outlasted 838 opponents to pick up the $2,500,000 payout. (He gained entrance to the WSOP via a $39 satellite tournament in an online card room.)
Poker blew up that year for a few reasons:
1) Moneymaker (pic at left) is an Average Joe. Utterly unqualified for poker stardom, he was working as an accountant when he won the tourney. Casual viewers, sensing that the poker world ain’t as insular as, say, the darts world (a world in which luck doesn’t play a role), quickly adopted an “If Moneymaker can do it, why not me?” mentality and commenced weekly house games with their buddies, Eyes>>>Stomachs.
2) ESPN showed “hole” cards on camera for the first time. “Hole” cards--the two cards you’re dealt in Texas Hold ‘Em before any community cards are revealed--are the cards that determine one’s initial betting strategy. In previous years, ESPN did not advertise the players’ hands, meaning the viewer was allowed little insight into player posturing, betting patterns, etc. “Hole” cards wouldn’t be divulged until after completion of a hand, if at all (you’re forced to show them only if an opponent calls your final bet). In 2003, that all changed. The voyeuristic nature of the pocket cam added immeasurably to the viewing experience and allowed laymen to practice their poker decisionizing in real time.
3) Lon McCarren and Norman Chad, ESPN’s go-to guys for the tourney, are two of the raddest announcers around. Lon’s a bit of a nerd, though his banter is spot-on and never superfluous; Norman is a sexually ambiguous, always-witty snarker who maintains (and demonstrates) sharp knowledge of the game.
4) ESPN provided incisive, comprehensive coverage in ’03. They highlighted crucial hands and omitted quiet, unimportant lulls in chip movement, meaning that poker was--for all intents and purposes--visually interesting to a television audience. That’s a rarity.
Anyway, that was around the time I began to play. Poker appeals to me because I recognize it for what it is: An engaging, cerebral match of wits where intellect wins out over luck. (In the long haul, anyway.) As Matt Damon proclaims in Rounders, there’s a reason the same fellas tend to end up at the WSOP final table, year after year.
Poker is a skill game. The best poker players in the world (Daniel Negreanu immediately comes to mind) can often identify your “hole” cards within two or three rounds of betting. Think about that. There are 1,326 distinct combinations of “hole” cards in a standard, 52-card deck. Everyone at the table is dealt one of those 1,326 hands. Let’s say you’re protecting one of them. After a few rounds of betting, there's a good chance that the highly skilled player has determined--beyond much doubt--that you’re holding one of four (4) hands. He’s essentially eliminated the other 1,322 possibilities, thus putting himself in position to plunder. The mental acuity required to perform such a feat is downright staggering. On the other end of the spectrum, the novice poker player relies solely on “gut” instinct, and rarely (if ever) has any idea what cards his opponents are holding. Astigmatic, he’s usually too concerned with the strength of his own hand to care about the rest of the table.
Strong players base their conclusions on your stratagem, which is probably not as opaque and inpenetrable as you presume. Math, intuition and their knowledge of human behavioral tendencies lead them to your cards. If you bet $50 into a $150 pot, the seasoned veteran picks up on that number and sets to ruminating: “Why did he bet $50, and not $25? Why not $75?” Your $50 bet says something about you. (Or, more specifically, it speaks volumes about the strength of your hand.)
Now that I’ve scared away all six of my followers with this confusing poker analysis, I’ll talk about myself. No one’s reading, anyway.
Here’s where I’ve played:
1) The LaGrange Country Club (IL) caddyshack.
2) The loft/attic in my buddy’s garage. (LaGrange.) He’d host bi-weekly poker parties. These usually entailed crumpled twenties, makeshift poker chips, domestic beer and violent cursing.
3) Lloyd’s Bar (Bandon, OR). Lloyd’s hosts a weekly Hold ‘Em tournament for caddies and locals. $25 to enter, plus the option to re-buy if you run out of chips in the first two hours of play. In the last four weeks of my first Bandon summer, I placed fourth, sixth, third, first. (There are 45-65 contestants, depending on the week.) That final payout was a smooth $1200 in cash. I’m awesome.
4) The Arcade Tavern (Bandon, OR). I wagered thousands of dollars at this place. They had a table set up in the back. We’d play $2/$4 limit games until 2 in the morning, five days a week.
5) Las Vegas. I bought in for $250 at the Bellagio (see pic) and sat down at a $4/$8 table. That $250 didn’t last long.
6) Online. At one point, I banned myself for one year from PokerRoom.com because I couldn’t stop playing. I’d swing $200-$500 a day, which just ain’t healthy for a person earning less than $50K a year. After a while, I had the good sense to nip it in the bud before grinding myself into financial straits.
7) Online (reprise). When I was unemployed and very nearly bankrupt about two months ago, I realized that I was gonna be $75 short on rent. Desperate, I transferred $25 from my checking to PokerStars.net and set out to earn the missing dollars. Four hours later I cashed out, $100 richer. A $125 check arrived in the mail at week's end. Haven’t played since. ...
Actual conversation with a woman buying golf clubs for her husband:
Me: “Hi there. Whatcha lookin’ for?” WBGCFHH: “Oh, hello. Hi. My husband turns 50 on Wednesday. He wants to get into golf. I’m here to buy him some stuff to get started...you know, the basics. Poles and a bag--he’ll need a bag, right?--and some balls. Kind of to surprise him.” Me: “A gift?” WBGCFHH: “Yeah.” Me: “Great. Has he ever played before?” WBGCFHH: “I don’t think so. No--no, he hasn’t.” Me: “Ok. As far as clubs go, you’re gonna want to start him off with something forgiving and easy to hit. I've got just the thing. Follow me.” WBGCFHH (fingering a set of irons on the wall, then another set): “I’ve noticed that the metal part on these poles is smaller than the metal part on these poles. Why?” Me: “Well, these CLUBS are smaller and sleeker because they’re for better players. People new to the game usually opt for fatter clubs. The part that actually strikes the ball is known as the clubface. The larger the clubface, the larger the “sweet spot.” This means that poorer players aren’t penalized very harshly for their errant shots. These puppies are easier to hit than the ones that look like tableware. Small clubfaces are for people who know what they’re doing.” WBGCFHH: “Why are there so many?” Me: “So many what?” WBGCFHH: “So many poles. Can’t you unscrew the metal part at the bottom and switch it out?” Me: “Switch it out?” WBGCFHH: “Are these not the same? Why are there eight or nine of them, and not just one?” Me: “Oh. Well, all these clubs are different. They perform different functions. Clubs come in varying degrees. By degrees, I mean the angle at which a club will project the ball into the air. See? (I demonstrate the difference between a 3-iron and a pitching wedge.) This means that the ball will fly at different heights when hit with different clubs.” WBGCFHH: “Well, they should just put it all one one metal pole. That way, you’d save metal, and all you’d have to carry would be the big parts at the bottom. Then you could just screw ‘em on.” Me: “Haha. Yes, they already developed that, actually, but it never caught on.” WBGCFHH: “I should re-invent it.” Me: “You should.” WBGCFHH: “How are they different?” Me: “Pardon me?”
WBGCFHH: “The poles--clubs--how are they different? This one is longer than this other one, and the heavy part at the end isn’t as--fat and clunky.” Me: “Oh. Well, they vary by degrees, as I was saying, and by length. That's standard. Clubs with a very low degree--say, 9 degrees--are longer in the shaft and used when you want to hit it low and far. Clubs with a very high degree--this one in my hand is a 49 degree wedge--are shorter in the shaft and used to pop the ball up in the air. It's all science. The longer irons--the ones that propel the ball the furthest--tend to have less bulk at the clubface. That's just the way it is. It's science. I don't mess with science.” WBGCFHH: “How much is a collection of these clubs? $75? $100? Me: “No, no. They start at $399. The premier sets on the wall sell for $1299. It’s an expensive game.” WBGCFHH: “I’ll say!” Me: “Yeah.” WBGCFHH (walking to the rack of fairway woods): “And then there’s these. What’s up with these? These don’t look like those.” (She gestures back to the wall of iron sets.) Me: “No, you’re right. These are woods. Woods are used for hitting the ball a long way.” WBGCFHH: “Why?” Me (confused): “Well, sometimes you want to hit it a long way. These clubs have the most meat behind the face--the most muscle--so there’s more of a wallop at impact. Plus, they’re much easier to hit than many of the irons you just saw.” WBGCFHH: “Do all golfers have the metal ones and these ones?” Me: “Irons and woods? Yes. I’ve met only one man who carried nothing but irons, and he was a bit eccentric. Plus, he wasn’t a very good player.” WBGCFHH: “So what do I buy?” Me: “I wouldn’t buy anything yet. Have your hubby come in. We’ll get him fitted for a set.” WBGCFHH: “Gosh, you really know what you’re doing.” Me: “Not really, but I’m getting there.” WBGCFHH: “I’ll bring him in.” Me: “See you soon.” ...
[ed. 10/28/09: Tonight, to my stunned dismay, I learned that most of the population does not know what it means to "contemplate one's navel." Selfishly speaking, that's a problem; if my readers don't recognize the phrase, the following entry A) makes no sense and B) alienates you from my blog in a damn hurry, since you're sure to miss the humor and tag me a narcissistic asshole.
So, without further ado, here's a link that might offer up a few explanations:
My navel is a circular, concave indentation in my abdominal region, centered equidistantly between my xyphoid process and the ventral tip of my pubis. It's also known as a belly button.
Today, my navel serves me no purpose; once, though, it allowed me to siphon nutrients and whatnot from my mother when I occupied her uterus, or so they tell me. I'm not entirely sure where these nutrients traveled once they passed thru the umbilical and into my navel, nor do I understand biological science in any capacity, but I DO know that without a navel, I'd be one of two things: 1) Not alive, on account of my not getting any nutrients, or 2) an alien. (Aliens are probably navel-less.) (Czech model Karolina Kurkova's dubious, wholly inconspicuous stomach marking may or may not be a navel. See pic here. Karolina is an exception to the rule...or, she is an alien.)
In the first Ace Ventura film, Jim Carrey allowed a pet bird to pick seeds from his navel. Not sure why I told you that, other than the fact that a navel was involved.
It seems as if the size and depth of one's navel depends, proportionally, on one's body weight...at least, that's been my experience. When I ran 50+ miles a week and sported a well-defined abdominal region, my navel was scarcely a navel, since there was nowhere for it to burrow. (At the time, I had 6-8% body fat.) Now that I'm five years and twenty pounds removed from college, my navel has excavated further and further into my belly (or, more accurately, my belly has risen to greet me), to the point where now I might be able to pour a small thimbleful of liquid into my navel without spillage.
Once, when I was young, I remember finding some small fuzzy stuff in my navel, which I now know to be lint. The lint was a dull brown color, and--as you'd expect--quite small. Strange. How'd it get in there? ...
"Whether (Winston) went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever."
-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)
"This is the age of the common man, they tell us--a title which any man may claim to the extent of such distinction as he has managed not to achieve. He will rise to a rank of nobility by means of the effort he has failed to make, he will be honored for such virtue as he has not displayed, and he will be paid for the goods which he did not produce. But we--we, who must atone for the guilt of ability--we will work to support him as he orders, with his pleasure as our only reward. Since we have the most to contribute, we will have the least to say. Since we have the better capacity to think, we will not be permitted a thought of our own. We will work under directives and controls, issued by those who are incapable of working."
-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (1957)
"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General."
--and--
"Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."
-Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron" (1961)
Meek and obedient you follow the leader Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel. What a surprise! A look of terminal shock in your eyes. Now things are really what they seem. No, this is not a bad dream.
Once a week, I spin--er, click--records at Jake's Dilemma, a pub on 81st and Amsterdam. Pretty sweet gig. They pay handsomely, and beer is on the house. Anthony Barker (scholar, gentleman, all-around good fellow) alerted me to the position.
Being utterly neophytic in all things DJ, I’ve experienced a few minor setbacks during my shifts. Check it:
1) The mouse on my MacBook sticks, meaning I can’t maneuver songs up or down an iTunes queue for fear of the inadvertent double-click. Should I choose to deviate from a pre-prepared setlist, auditory seams begin to show. Let’s say I’ve assembled a 35-song list to get me started. All songs are set to fade cleanly from one to the next, effectively a) eliminating dead air and b) fooling people into thinking I’m a professional. Some clown approaches the DJ booth and requests Tonic’s “If You Could Only See.” Well, now I’m forced to employ a choppy, manual fade-out (one hand on the master volume, the other readied at the mouse) to grant his request. Not cool, dude. If any tech heads out there know how to move songs up or down a playlist without the standard click-and-drag, please 411 me. Stat.
2) My record collection leaves much to be desired. Nearly all rock from ’66 to about ’78 is covered, as is most 90s alternative and everything Radiohead ever released. I’ve accumulated a fair amount of 80s radio pop, too, and a few select rap/hip-hop artists, but there’s flagrant gaps all over the place. Hell, the other day I noticed--with astonishment--that I don’t even own “Layla.” (Never cared all that much for Clapton.) This is a problem. On my first night of DJing, some chick boozed her way over to the booth and requested The Killers, a forgettable band with forgettable, interchangeable songs. Suffice it to say, I own exactly zero of them (the songs, I mean). Chick wasn't pleased. This week I’ll be downloading music at a frenetic pace and researching my ass off. I need to figure out what 90% of the population has been listening to since the latter stages of the Carter administration, since my brain/soul/heart/wallet/liver are still lost somewhere in 1979.
3) I am not a friend of technology. What I mean is that I devolve into a full-fledged imbecile when confronted with digitized, sharply-angled machines. Knobs and buttons confuse me, as do these mythic concepts like “Wii” and “Twitter” and “cell phones.” Every time I set up my laptop in the DJ cubbie (an elevated, 3x3 foot space above the beer pong tables…yes, there’s beer pong), something goes awry while I attempt to decode the vertical whoozits on the display panel. That's usually when I freak out and begin to cry. Eight or ten fat, fat seconds pass while I try to achieve volume from two sticks and a knot of prairie grass. Nonplussed boozehounds hurl tomatoes, heads of lettuce, and Heineken bottles at my quaking body, which is protected--mercifully--by a barred enclosure which was featured once in an episode of American Gladiators, I think. (DJing is dangerous work, like shrimping or bike messengering.) After picking fresh ketchup and bits of green, broken glass from the folds of my shirtsleeves, I spin something delectably arcane--The Smiths, say--which only upsets them further. “What’s this gay shit?,” they grunt, shirt collars pointed at the moon. “You pug-nosed neanderthals,” I reply, “go buy yourself some taste.” That’s when I flip ‘em a quarter thru the caging, which always seems like a good idea at the time. More bottles, more lettuce. To spite them, I doggie paddle even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I’m forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.
4) I deliberately break the rules. The fellas at Jake's Dilemma (a frat-ish "bro" bar) instruct me to stick to boring, straightaway rock, but do YOU know anyone capable of stomaching “Jet Airliner” nine or ten times without subjecting his ear to the fork? Didn’t think so. Other day, crazy bastard I am, I said, “Ah, the hell with it!,” and dipped my toe--hell, I went to the knee--into the Snoop Dogg/Ice Cube/Cypress Hill waters for about twenty minutes. Believe me, those beer-pongin’ honky cats ate it up. If management is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Wait...that makes no sense. But you catch my gist, right? What I'm trying to say is that I'm awesome, and more perceptive than my superiors. Jake's musical landscape is getting a makeover, one inflammatory track at a time.
5) Amy Winehouse’s “Back To Black” (the song, not the album) does NOT translate well to the dance floor. “You’re depressing the hell outta me,” some non-appreciative floozy informed me after my first--and last--spin of this colossal mood-killer. To spite her, I doggie paddled even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I was forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.
DJing has been good for me, musically speaking. For purposes of completism, I’ve consciously ventured outside of my comfort zone and explored sounds/genres that I previously deemed unlistenable. Without further explanation (or a viable defense), let me just say that I’ve become hopelessly addicted to this song, a song so un-Elwood it’s disgusting:
^ Attached vid isn't much of a vid, unfortunately. The official, MTV-approved clip--the one that made me fall in love with an underage/very illegal Gabriella Cilmi--won't allow embedding in a blog, so I'm forced to post this dubious substitute. Anyway, give a listen and feel free to tomato/lettuce me for my new, non-discriminatory pop leanings. By now, I'm used to it. ...
[Author's note: Seeing as I have no relevant photographs to upload as supplement to this entry, I'll be posting random pics of (or concerning) Public Image Ltd., the band currently spinning on my iPod. Good day.]
Triple Diamond Transportation Service is a small, locally owned cab company in Oregon that serves Bandon, Coquille and Coos Bay. (Because I'm into the whole brevity thing, I'll be referring to ^ as <> <> <> from here on out.) The business still exists, so far as I know, though an acrimonious pillow fight two summers ago pitted brother against brother (or, more accurately, driver against driver) and led to the ramshackle formation of a second, rival company, Par 3 Transportation.
Let’s meet the players of the game, in order of descending relevancy.
1) Frank. The head honcho, the Don, the boss, the pimp. He ran the operation. Equal parts ruthless, greedy, villainous, misogynistic and embittered, Frank was a real joy to be around, a real cutup. My favorite Frank quote: “City people are all fucking stupid. I hate cities. Never met a city person that I enjoyed being around. They’re all assholes.” Frank, a failed musician, moonlighted as a casino lounge singer. You can’t make that shit up.
2) Renee. My favorite <> <> <> employee. Renee, a young mother of two, oiled and maintained the machine when Frank fell asleep at the controls (which was often--he spent four to six hours a day feeding his fortune into slots at the local casino). She had the fattest heart of the lot. I miss her.
3) Large-Breasted Patty. Large-Breasted Patty boasted very large breasts, which she crowbarred into elasticine bras intended for mammaries ¼ their size. Patty, your classic Two-Face, was the sweetest, most well-endowed woman in the world when you were in her cab, but, within seconds of your exit, she'd run your name thru the mud to anyone within earshot. Secrets weren’t safe with her (ginormous rack). In semi-related news, I remember Patty telling me that a group of drunken golfers offered her $2,000 in cash to flash them her jumblies for 10 seconds. “I didn’t do it,” she said proudly, nose and teats in the air. “Stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “Really damn stupid.”
4) Lori. Kind, polite, harmless, somewhat forgettable. (In spite of her seeming boringitude, I loved her immediately.) Lori’s porridge-brained 16-yr-old son worked at the course, and was perhaps the single worst caddie I’ve ever seen. I once watched that acne-scratcher read a three-foot putt to break six inches left. It carved a foot right. His golfer turned many colors and threatened to plant boots in certain orifices.
5) Frank’s Wife, Terri. Terri, bless her soul, really f***ed up. She married Frank--only God knows why--and doomed herself to a life of mindless circuitry in a two-bit town. Every time I encountered her, I wanted to shake those broad, mannish shoulders (she was a brute) and shout: “Escape! Get the hell out! There’s a whole world out there beyond the Coquille River! Your husband smells like ham!”
There were other players, too, though they assumed menial, insignificant roles in the Civil War of 2006. Six or seven other drivers drove for <> <> <> at one point in time, though they held very little stock in the company and, therefore, did not actively influence the fracture.
I rode <> <> <> every day for three summers. The prices they charged were too good to be true; a one-way ride from town to the resort (10-15 minutes door to door) was only $5, a true steal. They didn’t up the fare to $7 until early fall of ’06, when escalating gas prices necessitated a bump. All in all, <> <> <> proved an efficient, economical way to travel. Who needs a car?
The night before a loop (caddie slang for a standard, 18-hole round of golf), I’d ring <> <> <> and request a pickup time, which--more often than not--fell somewhere in the 5:00-5:30 range. The morning cab, a paddy wagon of sorts, burped and rumbled over the volatile Bandon streets (our “cab" was a hugantic Econoline van with very poor shocks), plucking up red-eyed caddies from brittle, wooden homes that looked as if a stiff breeze could do 'em in. Most of the caddies were either hungover or drunk, or brain damaged. They’d curse and mutter and sleep, voweling things that sounded like (but may very well not have been), “…can’t believe…how am I gonna…long day…wrong shoes…not enough water…alarm didn’t go off…damn wife…whiskey...two a.m...”
Incredulously, <> <> <> stocked canned beer, free of charge. Oregon law permits drinking in cabs. After a round or two out on the windy bluff, we’d collapse our sweating, aching bodies into the cab and pop a Budweiser from the cooler. On a good day, if one were feeling particularly ambitious and/or cheap, a looper could easily down three full beers before his drop-off point. If that’s not incentive to take a cab, I don’t know what is.
Okay, on to the fight:
Frank, as previously stated, was a goon. He paid his drivers roughly $8 an hour, but they deserved $15….if not more. Though no mathspert, I once crunched a few numbers and realized that Frank was banking a small fortune off of us. (On an average lift to/fro the course, there’d be 4 or 5 well-tipping caddies in the van. Frank also shuttled golf groups from the local airports, a practice which yielded enormous returns--often twelve or fifteen times the raw cost of the ride.) His drivers saw very little of this profit, though they logged inhumane hours and responded to his every beck and call. Some of them worked 14, 15 hour days. Frank, it seemed, worked once a week. The drivers quickly woke to the scam and demanded raises.
That’s when things got ugly.
Frank wouldn’t budge. I heard arguments from both sides, mostly because I knew all of the drivers intimately. Names were mentioned. Shit was talked. Backs were stabbed. Renee expressed to me that she was planning on breaking from the company. She’d been in discussions with Patty, she said. They had enough capital to pull it off, and all the proper papers. Weeks later, <> <> <> split in two. Somewhere in transition, though, Renee got pushed to the side and forgotten. Big-Breasted Patty took over the new gig and began calling the tits--I mean, shots.
Caddies pledged allegiance to one or the other. Some stuck with Frank. Others--myself included in this, the latter set--switched over to Par 3, the new, Patty-run company. Vitriol ensued as Company A slammed Company B at every opportunity, and vice versa. I’d like to think that Frank’s <> <> <> suffered, though I can’t be certain. He still monopolized the airport runs.
Big-Breasted Patty (for some reason, I feel as if “Big-Breasted” ought to be capitalized…perhaps those bosoms demand exclamation) turned out to be even flakier than previously suggested, so I eventually ditched her, too. See, a few times Patty forgot to pick me up in the a.m., forcing me to seek alternative transportation. I later found out that she often answered my evening phone calls while sauced at the local pub, which might begin to explain her inconsistencies. Crazy wench nearly cost me my job, on multiple occasions.
During those last months in Bandon, I appealed to the third cab service in town, a company whose name escapes me. These swell fellas arrived on time--if not five minutes early--and charged $5, the old rate at <> <> <>. Me: “Sold!”
And that, as they say, was that. Somewhere, at this very moment, Frank is probably pushing my crumpled bills into a Lucky Sevens machine. ...
Fast forward two years. Fresh off a winter of East Coast road tripping, I’ve returned to Bandon to save for a fall move to New York City. Here we find Mike hopelessly depressed (New York : Bandon :: Tom Waits : James Blunt), living alone at the motel mentioned in part I of this installation. I become more hermetic by the hour, tangled in vague existential crises that know no antidote. My routine numbs the mind and sucks the soul; I caddie during the day, return to an empty room at night, read Vonnegut and Capote. Sometimes I watch very bad television, blinds drawn. I retreat further and further inside my head and rarely emerge from my four-walled cave.
Then:
A simple twist of fate (cheers, Bobby). My peepers fall on a handwritten ad thumbtacked to the caddie shack bulletin board. It reads something like this: “Room for rent. $275/mo. Clean, spacious. Inquire at 347-xxxx.” So I do. I inquire. Her voice sounds like alley rocks. She asks me where I am. “Ray’s,” I say. “Near the blue benches.” Ray’s is the supermarket. She: “I’ll pick you up.” Her car is a sleek, black Pontiac that exists outside of time and space. And taste. It may be from 1989 or, say, 2006. I'm not really sure. Of course the windows are tinted. Two white, fuzzy dice swing from the rearview mirror. "Get in," she says. Her name is Sandra. She is 54.
Minutes later, we arrive at her home.
RED FLAGS:
1) Chloe, the dog, is a monstrous creature who has not been bathed in months. Though diminutive and perfectly harmless, tempermentally speaking, she’s spoiled to shit and probably disease-ridden, judging from the odor. Chloe massages herself by rubbing her fetid hindquarters against the legs of the living room couch. That dog needs a good punting.
2) Mike, Sandra’s “roommate” (are they sleeping together? no one knows), is an older, vaguely creepy man with no teeth and sad, watery eyes. He occupies the bedroom across the hall from Sandra. Mike’s mustache is stone grey, except for a very thin patch between his nostril and upper lip, which is burnt to a fine orange from years of ciggie smoking. He looks like prison. (More on that later.)
3) Mike dates (see: sleeps with) Charla, a flannelled mother of two who belongs in a sentence with these three words: “archetypical,” “trailor,” and “trash.” She drives a rusted, dented Buick that is not of this decade, swills vodka straight from the bottle and wears--unironically--black, stonewashed jeans that rise to her nipples.
4) The bed in my would-be room is a 70s-style waterbed (see: lumps in all the wrong places, zero lumbar support).
5) The house reeks of cigarette smoke.
“I’ll take it!” I say.
First few weeks pass without incident. I discover that Sandra is a raging alcoholic, but a highly disciplined one. She drinks exactly once a week, from noon on Saturday to four a.m. on Sunday. My bedroom flanks the enclosed back porch, which is, admittedly, a pretty sweet party room. There’s a diner-style booth, a few scattered couches and a stereo. Full bar in the back. Every Saturday Sandra takes to her chair next to the record player and pours herself a malicious whiskey-‘n’-water, but not before queuing a Greatest Hits Of The 70s compilation and calling all her degenerate friends to take part in the festivities. Before night's end, ten or twelve locals--Sandra's posse--hiccup their way onto the porch, each louder than the last.
A window in my room looks out into the porch. I can see them, but, due to the lighting and the blinds, they can’t see me.
One Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) I awake to hear Mike and Charla doing the old in-out, in-out on the porch after Sandra and the trolls pass out. This horrid, eyeball-breaking act takes place ten paces from my window. I am nonplussed.
Sometimes I make an appearance at the Saturday parties. Sandra and Mike adore me because I’m young (they live vicariously through me) and fairly sociable, and because they get a kick out of my stories. Their crazy friends take to me immediately. I spend hours on that porch, sipping microbrew and yabbering away.
[A completely random aside: Sandra’s skin is frighteningly sallow. I know why. All she eats are mini Crunch bars and Reese’s cups. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. In my four months there, I never once see her consume regular, nutritional food. One day I peer into her room to confirm my suspicions, and, sure enough, there's five or six of those 10-Piece Fun Packs on the carpet next to her bed. Sandra runs on chocolate, yet--surprisingly--she’s skinnier than I am.]
Sandra’s daughter, Amy, is 23. Sandra tries to hook us up. “Amy will be coming down this weekend from Portland,” she says. “You MUST meet her.” Then she shows me pictures of Amy. I look at the pictures. They're nice pictures. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll meet her.” Amy arrives. She pretends I do not exist. Cold shoulder. On the third day, Amy offers this: “We--my friends and I--are hitting the pub, if you wanna go.” “Sure,” I say. “I’m in.” We go. We drink. After two or three, Amy gives me the eye and slinks over to my side, bolstered by that liquid courage. I don’t know what to make of all this. I was fairly convinced she hated me, but that hand on my arm suggests otherwise. That’s when Jay, her ex-boyfriend, steamrolls across the bar and takes a swing at me. My first bar fight! (Ok, so it isn’t really a fight. Four or five people intervene before any punches land.)
Amy and I flee the bar hand in hand. Twenty minutes later, we’re in her car en route to Portland. On the way up, we listen to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" probably 45 times. So it goes.
A few weeks later, I’m reading on the living room couch, minding my business, when Mike emerges from the back porch. He’s wrecked. I can see it in his eyes. He sways in front of me before slurring--inches from my face--something along these lines: “If you EVER cross me, Mike, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll end you. I’ll fucking end you.” I realize, then and there, that this man is capable of murder. It takes me a few minutes to talk him down and put him to bed.
Days later, I discover (via Sandra) that Mike has spent 20+ years of his life in prison, though to this day I don’t what crime brought about such a sentence. She doesn’t volunteer that information. Swell, Sandra.
I get out of there, eventually. Alive, one piece, all my digits. Phew! ...
... I’ve blogged about my caddie years at LaGrange Country Club (←click the link, suckas!), but what I’ve yet to touch on--in any real detail, anyway--are my four summers in Oregon.
Bandon is a coastal community in southern Oregon, nine hours from the Bay Area and four from Portland. (Above pic was taken at Bandon Beach with a $7 camera.) The neighboring towns aren’t all that interesting. Coos Bay borders on the north, which probably doesn’t register unless you--like me--were a fanatical track dork in high school. Steve Prefontaine, one of our most celebrated distance runners, hailed from Coos Bay.
Bandon is as tiny as it sounds, but I’ve erred in my estimations; Wikipedia tells me that roughly 3,000 people--not 1,700, as I previously guessed--populate the town. Formerly a nondescript fishing and logging village (both industries suffered during the 1980s), Bandon experienced a rebirth of sorts when the first course at Bandon Dunes Golf Resort opened to the public in 1999. Ten years and two courses later, many well-traveled golf fiends consider Bandon the world’s premier resort destination. I've heard that statement on more than a few occasions, without a hint of hyperbole.
It went like this: E-mails were sent off and then received, phone calls placed, flights booked, bags packed. Summer ’04--my first out of college--I moved to Bandon with Van, a friend from school.
We squatted in a roadside motel off Highway 101, a major artery which cuts through coastal Washington, Oregon and California. She asked a mere $450--$225 apiece--for rent. Two twin beds, modest sink/vanity, mini fridge, bathroom, maid service. Four minute walk to the freakin’ Pacific Ocean. Not bad. We called that place home for three months.
The resort was a short drive up the road, ten minutes door to door from the motel. Van and I usually arrived at 5:15 in the a.m., if not sooner. There’d be a few other faceless caddies (faceless on account of the darkness, I mean) milling about, smoking cigarettes and muttering to each other.
The caddie shack was--quite literally--a trailor without wheels. Someone plopped this boxy eyesore on the fringe of a parking lot and converted it into a sitting room. The shack housed a big screen TV with an impossible glare; knives of sunlight kicked around the room off the sagging window blinds and dashed any hopes for a clear picture. There must have been a SportsCenter clause appended to the sitting room constitution, because it's all we ever watched. ESPN yielded only to golf, which we tuned to whenever a tournament was airing.
The trailor experienced a bit of a fly problem--an epidemic, really--during the warmer months. Dozens of flies circled the room, landing on bits of muffin and cheeks of sleeping caddies. We massacred them, of course. With my rolled-up Newsweek, I probably took down 40-50 flies a day. Their bloodied carcasses became one with the walls, the tables, the floor.
Then there was another, smaller shack, which acted as a crude cardroom of sorts. We’d huddle around a banged-up table and play Spades for $5 or $10 a pop. Damon (my frequent card partner) and I rarely lost; we probably banked $800 that summer on Spades alone.
Karl cooked for us. Seeing as Karl knew his music (he befriended the Ramones in ’76 and spent the next ten-odd years bopping from venue to venue throughout New England), we hit it off right away. He’d fire off obscure trivia questions, which I usually fielded cleanly. My competence in such matters earned his immediate respect. When not engaged in music talk, Karl scared up some fierce dishes for mere pennies; a chicken-and-cheese wrap the size of my head went for $2.25. Every Sunday he served up hulking pancake dishes for $1.50.
In terms of caddie apparel, we had two options:
1) The “Whites.” The “Whites” were essentially a painter’s uni--a white, canvas, neck-to-toe zip-up that kinda made you look like an Oompa Loompa. Pros: Light, airy, comfortable, versatile, and cheap ($25). Lots of pockets. Cons: AWFUL in the rain. The material absorbs, rather than refracts, water. (See me in "Whites" below.)
2) Gore Tex. The preferred look for most caddies on the resort. A black, two-piece ensemble, Gore Tex provided shell protection from the frequent Bandon rains and kept us warm. Pros: Classier, sexier, more aesthetically pleasing than the “Whites.” Phenomenal rain/wind protection. Cons: The price ($225).
Caddying is more complicated than one might presume. We’re bag carriers, yes, but the job hardly ends there. We’re also counselors, gurus, cheerleaders, chums, guides, comedians, and mediators.
For each and every shot, I’m at my golfer’s side, offering advice. I consider breeze (a significant factor in Bandon, where the average winds are 20 mph), terrain, altitude, the slope of the fairways and greens, my golfer’s skill level, the strength of his opponents, the ball’s position in the grass. If he selects a 7-iron from his bag and I know it oughta be an 8, I pipe up. If he turns blood red after a poor shot, I remind him that the shot can’t be replayed, and prepare him for the next. If he’s been overswinging all day, I encourage him to relax. If he bitches about his coworker/playing partner/wife, I change the subject. If he's tense, I make fun of him until he laughs in spite of himself. If he’s sober and dull, I suggest drinks at the turnstand.
Once my golfer reaches the putting surface, I ditch the bag and sink to all fours to scout the subtle undulations of the green. After visualizing the path of the ball, I point to a twig, leaf, or indent in the ground and use that marker as a guide. “Hit it here, Bob,” I say, “and with 75% pace. We’re going downhill and downgrain. Your ball’s gonna take a sharp left eight inches from the cup.” Tips are made and lost on the putting greens. Those who read them with sagacity are handsomely rewarded.
Bandon caddies receive payment in cash, cash, cash. For stories about the idiotic things we do/did with all that cash, you’ll have to wait for Part II, which I’ll post early next week.
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play makes mike a dull boy no work and all play mak
It all started last week with Joaquin Phoenix’s appearance on the Letterman show, which was either--take your pick--a masterful, Kaufmanesque performance art piece or a very public cry for help. You’ve probably all seen the clip, but I’ll post anyway for those who missed it:
No one seems entirely certain whether Phoenix was putting us on or not, though the fact that he granted a lucid, coherent interview to CinemaBlend.com in the a.m. of that same day points to the former. I’m convinced Late Show Phoenix knew exactly what he was doing, an opinion further bolstered by my discovery of the documentary-in-progress about Phoenix’s curious transition from film to rap music. (Director: Casey Affleck.)
Pieces begin to fall neatly into place. What better way for one to assure himself water cooler mention across vapid, tabloid-crazy America than a barbitural meltdown on national television? Those eleven awkward, sweating minutes oughta generate swell publicity for his forthcoming doc(mock?)umentary and rap album, don’t you think? Joaquin, I applaud you...and that ain't sarcasm. You done well.
Whether you believed it to be a calculated gag or a frightening reflection of his inner state, Phoenix’s interview recalled the antics of deceased funnyman/performance artist Andy Kaufman (pictured).
Kaufman was essentially an anti-comic; many of his stunts baffled and/or irritated audiences, not to mention challenged their very notions of the nature and definition of comedy. He was enigmatic, to say the least. Kaufman didn't even consider himself a comedian, though I’d argue a man that funny doesn’t have a say in the matter. He wasn't a joke teller, sure, but then are jokes a prerequisite? Let's split a few hairs here. If we're to put any stock into, say, Merriam-Webster's definition (comedian: noun2: a comical individual; specifically: a professional entertainer who uses any of various physical or verbal means to be amusing), Kaufman misdiagnosed himself. The man was a comedian, actor, artist and entertainer of the highest order.
He once curled up in a sleeping bag onstage and took a nap before a puzzled (and, one would assume, pissed) audience, which calls to mind composer John Cage's 4'33" (1952), a four minute and thirty-three second exercise in silence. In both instances, the real "performance" comes from the audience as they respond (with murmurs, throat-clearing and the like) to this vexing absence of sound and movement.
Then there’s the time Kaufman folded back the cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and began reading aloud from page one. Understandably peeved, the crowd heckled and booed and yawned and probably muttered things like “Aw geez, c’mon!” before Kaufman finally--after a few bloated, interminable minutes--paused his reading and offered up an ultimatum. “It’s either this or I’ll play a record for you. What’ll it be?” (Not an exact quote.) They chose the record, of course, which ended up being a recording of Kaufman reading The Great Gatsby.
[ed. 2/19: I don't mean to suggest that Kaufman was reviled by all who witnessed his act. Quite the contrary. He no doubt had his dissenters (you either "get" the sleeping bag bit, or you don't), but I'd imagine the majority of his audience appreciated his aesthetic, even if it sometimes took them a few moments to understand his particular brand of humor. Comedy that progressive is bound to discourage a few traditionalists. A parallel example from the music world might be Miles Davis' Bitches Brew (1969), the first true jazz/rock "fusion" album, which was generally hated on by conservative listeners but embraced by those eager for a new, enlivened jazz.]
Here's one of my favorite Kaufman sketches:
Lastly, I’ll leave you with an uncomfortable Norm MacDonald clip in which he plays on audience expectations during a Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget. Something tells me Kaufman would have approved:
1) Goat’s Head Soup by The Rolling Stones. (Released 1973.)
Unless you’re a rockophile who’s amassed most of the Stones’ recorded output, the only items you'll recognize from the track listing are “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” and, of course, “Angie.” Midwestern deejays still spin the former on Twofer Tuesdays; you once put the latter on a mix tape for a girl at school while in the eighth grade.
Soup ain’t universally loved. The Stones snapped their own four-record winning streak (Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile On Main Street) by daring to release an album that wasn’t entirely perfect. Their cocks back in their pants after eight years of swagger [An aside: Speaking of cocks, you know that infamous crotch shot from the cover of Sticky Fingers (pictured)? The crotch in question belongs to one Joe Dallesandro, an underground film star from the 60s who cavorted about with Warhol and his plastic gang. Now he owns and runs a hotel in Los Angeles. I met the man, the cock, the legend back in the summer of ’06 while visiting my buddy Travis in West Hollywood. Lou Reed commemorated Joe “Little Joe” Dallesandro in “Walk On The Wild Side”, his ’72 radio staple: “…Little Joe never once gave it away/everybody had to pay and pay…”], Mick and Co. recorded a few inspired tracks and a few weightless ones and didn’t know what else to do so they stamped ‘em on bits of vinyl and sent them off to be tomatoed by critics.
Soup, though, is a better album than most critics/bloggers/snarky music nerds would probably lead you to believe. It’s not their OK Computer, to be fair, but then it’s also not their St. Anger. Not great enough to inspire breathless praise, nor lame enough to warrant derision. It just exists in that 18mm space on your shelf and doesn’t say a whole lot. (The album cover is pictured at left.)
I’d like to highlight a specific track. “100 Years Ago,” the second track on the record, is quite the grower. It starts out as a fairly harmless, fairly pretty number about something nice (I haven’t really listened to the lyrics). Then there’s a bitchin’ little teaser of a freakout, then a quiet, contemplative part where all the instruments die away and Mick warbles something about “lazy bones,” which is kind of strange and boring and seemingly anti-climactic. That’s ‘round the time you nod off into your dkeyboyarjklsdssads;;;l;llllllllllllll;.o but wait! When the 2:35 mark hits they scrap all the lazy bones nonsense and just rip your face open with a devastating jam that disrupts your equilibrium and sets the hairs on your arm up up up!
Listen for yourself:
2) Agaetis Byrjun by Sigur Ros. (Released 1999.)
Dear God, where has this album been all my life? Where has this BAND been all my life?
Oh, sure, I knew who they were. I’d heard 2005’s Takk and that swell song from Vanilla Sky (“Njosnavelin”), but their music didn’t stir enough in me to invite repeat listens. Then I gave Agaetis Byrjun a spin.
My iTunes tells me that “Flugufrelsarinn,” the fourth track, has played 51 times in the past week. Quite simply, it’s one of the most profound homages to sound I’ve ever heard. (Check out Jonsi's vocal from 2:05-2:15.)
Here’s “Flugufrelsarinn” (gesundheit!):
3) Moon Safari and soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides by Air. (Released 1998 and 1999, respectively.)
As usual, I was the last to know. Air? What the hell is this Air business? 1998!? How did I miss these guys back when they were relevant? Too busy plunking down dollars for Rush albums and Smashing Pumpkins B-Sides, probably.
Anyway, glad I found ‘em. Moon Safari has consumed my attentions for more than a few weeks. Ask my annoyed friends. (I haven’t shut up about it.)
Rather than bore you by trying to describe their sound (Elvis Costello: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”), I’ll direct you straight to a clip. What you’re hearing is “La Femme D’Argent,” the first track from Moon Safari. What you’re seeing is San Francisco’s Market Street in 1905, one year before the great quake.
"Pish posh," you say, "there's nothing to master! Chuck a numbered tag at 'em, snatch their garment. Hang the damn thing on a damn rack. How hard can it be?"
Well, you’ve obviously never worked a coat check where the employees are expressly disallowed the luxury of a tip jar. In such cases, one must devise new methods if he doesn't want to leave empty-handed.
Let’s rewind to a rainy day sample sale at Hermes, the Parisian fashion company. Two women and I were assigned coat check for the event, which proved a logistical disaster since some 1200 overly made-up blue hairs bum rushed the doors before lunch. Three employees in a claustrophobic coat check can’t possibly address a situation like that with any semblance of efficiency, ‘specially since these cowesses unloaded coat, handbag (I learned that “purse” ain’t the preferred nomenclature in these circles) and umbrella.
The Hermes people forebade tip jars, meaning we banked standard wage while waiting hand and foot on spoiled multi-millionaires. (To give you an idea of the spending habits of Hermes clientele, the average receipt total was $7K-$8K.)
Needless to say, I was livid.
Three hours into our first day, I stormed into the office of the woman responsible for our hiring and demanded that she request two additional temps--and additional storage racks--before tomorrow’s sale. “Listen,” I snapped, “you didn’t even provide enough hangers! We’ve run out of room for the handbags or purses or whatever the hell you call ‘em. Women are hollering at us for losing umbrella covers, gloves, etc., but what’re we supposed to do? We lack basic shelving. You’ve screwed us by running an understaffed event. On top of it all, no tips! Can we please set up a jar?” “No,” she said, anxious to get back to her $16 brie-and-veggie panini. “My apologies. It’s my superiors…”
So we hatched a plan. One of the girls pulled a dollar bill from her purse (er, handbag), folded it in threes. “Look,” she said, "carry one in your palm at all times. Make sure the bill protrudes over your index finger by a good inch. By the power of suggestion, we’ll make our tips anyway.”
Sure enough, our little stunt worked. We cashed.
Fast-forward to the present week:
Coat check on the Upper West. This time, I’m alone. No jar allowed. I employ the dollar-in-the-palm trick, which produ...
Screw it! I decide to shuck the rules and institute a tip jar. To protect myself, I place the jar (a transparent, plastic tub somewhat akin to tupperware) on the desk just inside the coatroom door, where it can be plainly seen by my patrons but discarded at a moment’s notice if any of the Bad Guys approach.
In a brilliant display of shameless author-dropping, I also place my copy of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged face-up on that same desk, inches away from the jar. Seeing as I happen to be at the N-Y Historical Society on this particular evening, I figure more than a few of these educated cats might note my chosen reading material and strike up a conversation about it. Sure enough, they do. This leads to more tips. One fella discusses Rand with me for a good 2-3 minutes and asks--with narrowed eyes--if I’m an Objectivist ("I am not," I reply, "though I don't demonize her philosophy as much as some of my friends") before tucking a fiver in my palm.
Another trick (well, not a trick, but a critical rule of thumb):
When receiving a tip, always, ALWAYS acknowledge it verbally with a gracious thank you, and then make a show of placing it in the jar with grand panache so those waiting in line can see what you’ve just been given. When a Joe observes the fella in front of him proffering a tip, 90-100% of the time you’ll receive the same from him.
That’s how I make the big bucks, baby! Keep these swell suggestions in mind if you ever lose your real, big-people job and find yourself behind a desk with a bunch of hangers. ...
It all happened so quickly. One moment I’m loitering about in nondescript Nikes, ill-fitting pants and a lame button-down; the next, I’ve fought my way into a pair of skinny jeans, laced my Chucks (low-cut, black) and bused to Williamsburg, off to dance like a white person in a club that may or may not be spinning Hercules and Love Affair. As things stand at present, I’m whiplashed, disoriented, demoralized. I’ve joined the enemy.
This coming from a fella who’s spent the better part of two years making fun of hipsters for their superfluous ornamentations, insular music snobbery and humorous attempts to eternize their half-realized “artsy” and “esoteric” aesthetic! Let’s face it: Hipsters, when you get right down to it, are kind of clownish. In the same way many punks identify as such by adopting the uniform (leather, safety pins, mod boots, angular haircut, etc.), so, too, hipsters tend to flaunt their hipsterdom by treating life like a macro game of Dress Up whilst steadfastly adhering to all the unwritten hipster behavioral rules (i.e. swilling PBR from a can, frequenting thrift stores, liking Animal Collective, etc.).
That--the shameless perpetuation of a stereotype--has always been my main beef with hipster culture. Why would anybody wish to subscribe so fully to a well-demarcated clique? If you’ve just paid $6 for a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses with neon orange arms or whatever the hell you call the part that wraps around your ear, originality ain’t one of your predilections.
Ditch the trucker hat, I say, and develop your own look! Consciously eschewing the established stylings of your demograph is more punk/hipster/arty than any tried-and-true hipster outfit you might scare up. (“Hipster outfit,” of course, is a liquid concept that ain't at all definable; I realize I'm firing Nerf arrows here.) Adopting semi-funny, wholly ironic digs does not a hip cat make. Pairing multi-coloured (always preferred the British spelling) scarf, fedora and checkerboard shoe does not a hip cat make. What it makes you, friend, is a clone.
A real badass (admittedly, I am not said badass) would make like George Costanza and drape themselves in velvet, head-to-toe. In my eyes, that would be infinitely more hip (adj. 1. Keenly aware of or knowledgeable about the latest trends or developments) than anything going on on Bedford right now, since you'd be subverting expectations and offering a progressive take on that scene.
Enough about that. I'm talking out of my ass.
Despite my seeming aversion to the lifestyle, this weekend I took the hipster plunge. For proof, check out my activities from those 70-odd hours:
1) Did not leave Brooklyn. Divided my time between Crown Heights, Williamsburg (a hipster’s natural habitat) and Greenpoint. 2) Wore my Chucks out on both Friday and Saturday night. 3) Purchased the aforementioned skinny jeans (yep, hipster staple) at a thrift store for sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents. 4) Drank copious amounts of PBR. 5) Attended a Dan Deacon concert. (Not liking Deacon, by the way, predicates certain exile in hipster circles). I happen to like Dan Deacon. Dan Deacon is A-1. 6) Attended a rad dance party in Williamsburg. 7) To be clear: I attended a DAN DEACON concert (if you’re wondering who Dan Deacon is, please reference Wikipedia, an online encyclopedia that is entirely 100% factual) in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors with PBR in hand. Dear God, what have I done?!
(long pause)
Erm. But wait…I’m not really a hipster. (Not that it matters one way or the other, of course. This blog has devolved into a childish wordplay exercise. Press on, Mike. Press on...) The more I consider, the more I realize the math don’t jive. I’m A) not living off my parents, B) would not consider myself an apathetic person, C) am not an indie music nerd (though I certainly appreciate some “hipster” bands), D) do not imbibe coffee or puff from hand-rolled cigarettes, and E) keep my keys in my pocket, not on a carabiner hooked to my belt loop. Oh, and I’m F) completely indifferent to Cat Power and TV On The Radio.
Looking back at the drivel I just spilled on this page, I’m taken by my own hypocrisy. In the last hour, I’ve G) claimed to be a hipster, H) bashed hipsters for not developing a fresh look (while I sit in Nikes, boring pants and a standard shirt), I) fallen prey to semantics by obsessing over the term “hipster” as if it’s a static designation that means anything, J) made a number of bad lists involving seemingly random lettering and numbering systems, and K) then, incredulously, upended the original premise of the blog by concluding that I’m actually NOT a hipster.
Now’s the point in the blog where I contemplate scrapping the last hour of work entirely and moving on to a fresh topic that ain’t so rife with inaccuracies and misdirected accusations. I've gone and painted myself a fool. (And, ironically, managed to lose--badly--an argument with myself.)
(long, long pause)
Screw it, I’m publishing it. My apologies for wasting your time. ...
Man Man drink from goblets made of driftwood. Would I lie? These greasy ferals masticate with prosthetic teeth crafted from stone and metal! (Three parts shale, one part scrap tin.) Last year they wonked their rumpus on a hay bale stage just west of Cincinnati and cuckolded every dude in town. The lead brat once tattooed a buffalo dick on his right bicep with a butter knife and a fistful of sloe berries.
I fear Man Man.
Man Man, as we all know, developed from spores affixed to the ceiling of a Norwegian cave. In the spring of Two Thousand and Three, they set off for Amerigo on a collapsed refrigerator box with eleven de-winged birds and a week’s worth of salted salmon filet. Alfgheir, the youngest and weakest of the pride, died of scurvy en route. The remaining men dismembered him and constructed a xylophone from his ribs and spine. Alfgheir’s hollowed skull, stuffed up with wrenched out teeth and bits of phalanx, served as a crude shaker. Man Man played their very first concert that afternoon, 50 miles west-northwest of Scotland.
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. They’d kill me…
LAst night I wentto te PaTriot {which is a diuve bar inManhattwn, which iw in america).. and killed o ff all my brian sells wiyth tap PBr that probbly came outa tainmted piping which is. why I’ve forggotten how totype and operte a motor veicle. I don’t know whgo to blame for myu exesses so I[ll blame Hank williams(I, II. and III especally I.
i thinbk we chawed on tobaccr and drankfrom the spitoon but that may-ve been a(Pabst, fueled) drea.m Reegardless” or ireggardles<" whicever is the apropria.te terminalrfizing, my breath tod4ay is stake an smoke anb hickery Sauce. I wrastlled and arrestesd a grizzloed bear with mY bear hand s, but then he graf. THat was thr frault of one Jim Beam, a dastardl charactar who brandede me in te throat with watrer and fire. have you noticved
AFter urnating on thr wall and the turlet seat; and bacvkhanding a bartener cross the facwe for lookinb at me wit her screwey eeyeball; I preformed a one*man kick)line on the bar. some One sprayed mwe with tonicwater which was very funnby! but my flannel ogt all cold and wet And I begaqn to shivver, which wasalso funny. i gfrew a moustash in nine mniutes.
I am takine a vow of sobrietyh. my braian is to importsnt to me[ I’vr lost vistion in my left ey. damn you, patriwot. Aws I type this, the crackers are delicdious but some of the crumbs geto on my shirt abnd their hard to brush off. I lobve things.
... Seeing as I'm uninspired and brain dead tonight (but antsy to post something, ANYTHING), what better than a series of mundane, meaningless lists that will be brushed over by 9 sets of eyeballs before being whisked off to some internet scrap heap where foul bathroom humor and yellow tabloid rancor lie in spoons?
(All lists are presented with no particular order in mind.)
5 things Mike hates more than the dentist:
1. Shopping for clothes 2. Poor grammar 3. Excessive winds 4. Jeremy Piven (pic at right) 5. Fauxhawks
8 lamest band names ever:
1. The Weakerthans 2. Girl Talk 3. My Morning Jacket 4. Crystal ______ (Fill in the blank; it hardly matters what you choose.) 5. Gnarls Barkley 6. Any band with the word “fuck” in the name (e.g. Fuck Buttons, Holy Fuck.) 7. Nickelback ('Specially when you discover--with horror--that their name was dreamt up by one of the band members who used to work at Starbucks. Due to the pricing system ($x.95), he'd always give a "nickel back" as change. What a buncha wankers.) 8. The Disco Biscuits
8 greatest band names ever:
1. The Conjugal Visitors 2. The Butthole Surfers 3. Jesus H. Christ and the Four Hornsmen of the Apocalypse 4. Me First and the Gimme Gimmes 5. The Velvet Underground 6. The Celibate Sluts 7. The Mothers of Invention 8. Throbbing Gristle
[ed. 2/25: The The probably deserve honorable mention]
5 most pretentious band names ever:
1. Earth 2. Genesis 3. Nirvana 4. The Band 5. The Creation
5 worst song titles ever:
1. "Me-You=Loneliness" (Dr. John) 2. "I Think Therefore I Rock ‘n’ Roll" (Ringo Starr) 3. "A Lot Of Nothing" (Coheed & Cambria) 4. "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." (Bright Eyes) 5. "Pink Bullets" (The Shins)
8 bands with exactly one (1) member that you can identify by name:
1. Coldplay 2. Blink 182 3. Santana 4. The Stone Temple Pilots 5. Soundgarden 6. Limp Bizkit 7. Nine Inch Nails 8. The Smashing Pumpkins
[ed. 2/25: Cary called me out on my bullshit. James Iha, of SP fame, is probably more of a household name than I supposed]
Worst writer in the New York Daily News:
1. Mike Lupica (This clown shouldn't be allowed to hold a pen. His columns are DISASTROUS. DISASTROUS! That's him on the left.)
5 strangest people Mike met while caddying:
1. Guy who played an entire 4 1/2 hour round of golf with Survivor's “Eye of the Tiger” programmed to repeat ad nauseum from a speakered iPod taped to his golf bag. He was funny. I'll give him that.
2. Tour Rich (Crazy-eyed caddie who overmedicated himself in the 60s but proved to be one of the, oh, 10 smartest people I've ever encountered. Frighteningly perceptive. My favorite Rich quote: "(sigh.) I need a break. Who wants to be Tour Rich today?")
3. "Gary” (A shrimpish mental midget with a penchant for coke, hookers and poker, this fella was a study in futility. My favorite "Gary" story (which may or may not be true): Three summers ago, he left OR with about $5000 in savings. He proceeded to blow (pun!) all $5000--and then some--on limos, women and pricey champagne in Vegas. This happened within 96 hours of his departure from Oregon.)
4. Nerdy lawyer dude who delivered the single greatest line I've ever heard: "Victory for Scott [his opponent] would require...an abject miscarriage of justice."
5. Frank (Angry cab driver who shuttled me to/from the Dunes for 4 years. Racist, bitter, misogynistic, greedy, corrupt. He moonlighted as a casino lounge singer.)
5 funny jobs Mike has had while temping:
1. Assistant to (topless) (gorgeous) female models during Cole Haan runway show.
2. Sweatshop work (de- and re-tagging small earrings and bracelets) at a prominent Manhattan jeweler.
3. Mailroom work at a University that shall go unnamed. Mike's mentor? Murray, an inaudible low talker with a stutter.
4. Coat check for an Hermes sample sale. 1200 bitchy, blue-haired, Upper East Side heiresses (see pic above) snatching up silk scarves that cost more than the computer I'm typing on.
5. Ann Taylor reception (42nd and Broadway...the belly of the Times Square beast) with a well-read, frizzy-haired woman named Lee who made me feel like an illiterate imbecile. "You've never heard of Fred Exley? WHAAAAAT?"
5 greatest television comedies of all time:
1. Seinfeld 2. Married With Children 3. The Simpsons 4. Arrested Development 5. Stella ...
Rock and roll has been dealt a mighty blow. Ron Asheton, Stooges guitarist and co-founder, was discovered dead in Ann Arbor early this morning.
There are very few deaths of this sort that shake me up. If, say, Robert Plant checked out, I’d probably spend most of the next day thumbing thru old Zep records out of respect, but not out of devastation; were Brian Wilson to make an exit, I’d spin Pet Sounds, but only because I owe it to the guy.
The death of Ron Asheton, though, warrants greater reflection (subjectively speaking).
The Stooges mean far more to me than Zeppelin, Cream, the Stones. More than AC/DC, Deep Purple or The Experience. When it comes to hard, bruising rock, I can count on zero fingers the number of bands that match the Stooges snarl for snarl. Though Iggy’s spastic stage antics doomed the Asheton brothers (Scott is the drummer) to certain anonymity, there’s no denying they comprised the calcified backbone of the band. I've always admired Ron's guitar work on the first two records ('69's The Stooges and '70's Fun House). That man just didn't know how to write a lousy riff.
Asheton’s death hit me especially hard today because The Stooges have been on my mind more than a few times in recent months. Let’s count the ways:
1) A mere twelve hours ago I sent a friend “Gimme Danger” (off The Stooges’ Raw Power) via zip file. She probably received it within minutes of Ron’s body being discovered.
2) I caught The Stooges on Aug. 8th in NYC. Pains me to admit--in light of last night’s events--that the following entry is entirely Iggycentric (he was, frankly, too magnetic; I barely noticed Ron and the other band members). Read about the show here.
3) I passed thru Ann Arbor (birthplace of The Stooges) over Christmas break to meet up with my roommates. The ONE touristy (see: music obsessive-y) thing I vowed to accomplish during my brief stay was a visit to the site of the Fun House, the band's squat during their formative years. When not eating acid or fucking off, they used the building as a crude studio. The Fun House no longer stands. Now it’s a Bank Of America. (I wonder how many people waiting in line for the teller realize that bong resin, beer bottles and used condoms once littered the ground on which they tread.) I drove thru town in the pouring rain---it was a nasty night---and parked in the bank lot. Sans umbrella, I bolted from the car and 360ed the bank by foot, carefully avoiding the sidewalk in favor of the grass. Seemed more appropriate, somehow. Anyway, my circuit complete, I got back in my car, flipped the wipers, waved goodbye to Fun House Of America and her untold debaucheries. Mission accomplished.
4) Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History Of Punk, perhaps my favorite music book, has been in my reading rotation for a couple years. Ron, Iggy and Co. feature prominently within. I completed my fourth or fifth reading about a month ago before lending to Lucas.
R.I.P., Ron. I’ll be spinning your music all afternoon.
...few weeks ago, then. Long lost friend from La Grange Park posted a lyric from Van Morrison's Astral Weeks (1968) on his Facebook wall. I peepered on that verse and felt:
1) newfound respect for said friend 2) a vague urge to cry
Here's why 2) happened:
Back during summer ‘05, clown-carred into a middle seat of a Portland-bound flight out of O’Hare, I thumbed eagerly thru my new book (Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, a Lester Bangs anthology). Lester ain't a virginal blog topic; I referenced him here. Anyway, one of the articles in Carburetor Dung addresses Astral Weeks, Van’s second release as a solo artist. Here's how Bangs (an unabashed Van disciple) concludes his analysis of this seminal album:
"...it might be pointed out that desolation, hurt, and anguish are hardly the only things in life, or in Astral Weeks. They're just the things, perhaps, that we can most easily grasp and explicate, which I suppose shows about what level our souls have evolved to. I said I wouldn't reduce the other songs on this album by trying to explain them, and I wont. But that doesn't mean that, all things considered, a juxtaposition of poets might not be in order…”
[Lester then presents one Van lyric and a poem from Federico Garcia Lorca, a prominent Spanish writer who died in ‘36.]
If I ventured in the slipstream Between the viaducts of your dreams Where the mobile steel rims crack And the ditch and the backroads stop Could you find me Would you kiss my eyes And lay me down In silence easy To be born again
--Van (from the title track off Astral Weeks)
My heart of silk is filled with lights, with lost bells, with lilies and bees. I will go very far, farther than those hills, farther than the seas, close to the stars, to beg Christ the Lord to give back the soul I had of old, when I was a child, ripened with legends, with a feathered cap and a wooden sword.
--Lorca
Tough-ass Mike lost his shit after reading Lorca's poem. It was just too much; I cried and cried. With those sixty-two words, Lorca issued my stale, sepian world a (much-needed) Randian shrug. I read and re-read that passage probably fifteen times whilst aboard the plane, tearing up every time. There's really nothing more life-affirming than a bare, minimalist work of art powerful enough to fell an emotionally armored man.
(…props to Lester for isolating two brilliant verses that warrant magnification…)
I'd like to give Lester the same treatment. One might argue that Lester (like a Nietzsche, say) was born posthumously. Though he boasted a rabid readership while alive, he's reached far more since his untimely death in '82. For us to ignore Lester's amphetaminic, electric prose would be to deprive our genius-starved society of a beautiful mind. In a crude attempt at an epitaph of sorts, let’s turn the mic on him as he sidles up to literary pioneer Mark Twain:
"It is a fact that nine-tenths of the HUMAN RACE never have and never will think for themselves, about anything. Whether it's music or Reaganomics, say, almost everybody prefers to sit and wait till somebody who seems to have some kind of authority--even if it's seldom too clear just where they got it--comes along and informs them one and all what their position on the matter should be. Then they all agree that this is gospel, and gang up to persecute whatever minority might happen to disagree. This is the history of the human race, certainly the history of music."
--Lester Bangs (from Carburetor Dung)
"When an entirely new and untried political project is sprung upon the people, they are startled, anxious, timid, and for a time they are mute, reserved, non-committal. The great majority of them are not studying the new doctrine and making up their minds about it, they are waiting to see which is going to be the popular side."
--Mark Twain (as quoted in the Dec. 22nd/29th New Yorker)
Someday, if I do it all right, if I tell it straight and true, perhaps someone will choose to juxtapose my words with someone of relevance… ...
Rather than offer up the snide, vengeful blog I first intended to write (Rolling Stone, thanks for providing glossy shit-catcher for my parakeet, or something in that vein), I’ve decided to go all Bacharach on y'all by adhering to his love, sweet love credo. There’s enough madness and misdirected ire skulking about to last us another two World Wars; for that reason, I’ll try to keep this rant relatively civil. It’s nearly Christmas, after all, and I’ve had a very pleasant day.
But you ain’t off the hook, Wenner (Jann Wenner is the co-founder and publisher of Rolling Stone magazine). Let’s take a moment to consider how RS, cultural fossil and THE one-time titan of the music print world, has baited and switched into a fanzine for indiscriminate rock fans and/or fifty-five year old men and/or naïve Top 40 receptacles interested in The Killers and/or Jackson Browne and/or Beyonce.
RS’s most recent list (The Top 50 Albums of 2008) says more than any blog can. Here’s a few artists that made the cut:
Bob Dylan (Saint Bob!), TV on the Radio (a safe, polite pic at #1), Lil Wayne (Wenner: “Alright, staffers: We’re gonna throw this Carter nonsense way the hell up there--top 5, say [it got #3]--for all the black readers. Gotta bring ‘em back over to our side after that Eagles cover.”), The Jonas Brothers (!), John Mellencamp (?), Randy Newman (haha!), Jackson Browne (there he is again!), Nas (see Lil Wayne), Taylor Swift (erm), Guns n’ Roses (wow).
Let’s wade thru this whiplash sea of greying goatees and tweeny glitter and break it all down. What happened here?
Well, a few things. Rolling Stone--many, many moons ago--wagered every last chip on standard guitar/bass/drums rock n’ roll. Granted, it’s hard to blame Wenner for his fanciful astigmatism since we know what was going on in 1967 (the year RS debuted): Doors, Beatles, Hendrix, Cream, Floyd, Stones, Kinks, Donovan, Velvets, Who, Love, Beefheart, etc., etc. All powerhouse rock bands, every last one of them releasing disgustingly great vinyl within a period of about nine months. RS got in at the right time (Wenner deserves credit for capitalizing on a golden nugget of opportunity, though--admittedly--said nugget was nestled square in a crease of the most affluent pocket of rock history we’ve ever seen) and recruited a readership the old-fashioned way: thru stimulating, no-bullshit analysis of the mainstream music scene.
Hunter S. Thompson and Lester Bangs (pictured at right) wrote for RS, as did Cameron Crowe and Robert Christgau. Four resident badasses. Thompson, of course, will forever be associated with the “gonzo” label. He blurred lines between reporter and subject, observer and participant, as effectively (and humorously) as anyone before or since. Lester Bangs is Lester Bangs, the greatest rock writer of all time [an aside: Bangs hated RS, and for good reason. Wenner wanted his writers to lick the asses of the rock stars, and an ass-licker Bangs was not.]. Crowe, an intrepid, precocious reporter who lived out every teenage rock fiend’s dream, went on to become a noted filmmaker after many years of dues-paying music writing. Christgau ranks as one of the greatest (and most influential) rock critics of all time, an inarguable distinction.
I cite the above fellas only to remind all three of my readers that RS once meant something.
Depending on who you ask, RS forfeited relevancy sometime in ‘68/9 (when it failed to recognize hard rock and heavy metal as legitimate movements, choosing instead to champion singer-songwriters above all others), ’77 (when they laughed off punk as a passing craze) or ‘round the time that hip-hop and rap broke (since--you guessed it--they paid the genre no mind). Some insist they’re still relevant, but I have yet to hear a viable argument in the magazine's defense.
In short, RS has always been a few steps behind the pace car. For a publication that claims to worship the forward-thinking Dylans and Lennons of the world, RS seems content reclining in its well-eroded rocking chair, head bobbing along to--oh, I dunno--Eric Carmen?
What I’ve witnessed whilst methodically dissecting this whole RS fiasco (believe me, I’ve been watching closely) is an all-too-common trend in the corporate world: a glaring lack of direction.
Businesses tend to fail not for wont of money, but for absence of vision and order. There’s a reason the MTA, NYC’s transportation authority, is going bankrupt, and it sure as hell ain’t from a lack of disposable funds. Well over half of the city's 8 million inhabitants swipe at the subway turnstiles on a daily basis, yielding untold MILLIONS in gross income--every day! per diem!--for the transportation authority. Now they're crying for a bailout. On Sunday my buddy Lucas and I discussed this over a slice. Our conclusion? Plump, handsomely-revenued companies have no room to bitch about money. You can trace the roots of MTA's bankruptcy to the corrupt, incompetent managers decisioneering from their swivel chairs. Let’s face it: the most effective product/service in the world won’t realize its potential without a sound marketing strategy or well-crafted financial objective…
…which brings us back to RS. Has Wenner ever called a closed-door meeting to discuss the future of the magazine? I get the feeling he hasn't sent that memo in well over two decades. When rock--in the narrow, 60s sense of the word--branched off into all these other subgenres (metal, prog, punk, post-punk, synth-pop, grunge, hip-hop, indie, etc., etc.), RS still had a choice. They could’ve decided--then and there--to tack one way (“let’s stick to covering radio-friendly rock…”) or the other (“let’s isolate a niche and exploit the hell out of it…”). Wenner, though, never called that meeting; as a result, his precious rag suffers from an identity crisis.
That’s why modern, well-respected RS oil-burners David Fricke and Peter Travers have no idea what the fuck’s going on with their magazine (though they certainly wouldn’t concede that, for fear of the AXE). Those wee voices in their brainiums urging them to craft faithful, honest reviews are allowed hardly a syllable ‘fore they’re bound and quickly gagged by Big Brother (a.k.a. Wenner, shown at right in a rather old photograph). Next thing you know, Fricke and Travers (zombie eyes marked by a tired glaze) toss out stars in a confetti fashion. Three and 1/2 for you! Four for you! Album of the year! Album of the decade!
Where’s the continuity?
Wenner’s recent decision to cover all vaguely-important artists (even the burnouts who clamored around during RS’s formative years) has resulted in the muddled mess you see before you today. It’s a shame. A damn, damn shame. You could’ve done it so much better, RS.
In semi-related news, I really dig the album Tim by the Replacements. Fantastic record.
I don’t know you--to be fair, there was that time we “met” thru that one friend of a friend, but all we did was stiffly shake hands--yet I already know everything about you. See, I fine-toothed your profile when you sought out and befriended me on Facebook. Here’s what I discovered:
1) You are adamantly against country music, but you love “everything else.” This is highly coincidental. I, too, appreciate the late 70s/early 80s Manchester scene! We should talk about it sometime.
2) You like “wheat toat [sic] slathered with Smuckers strawberry jam,” but you do not like when the underside of the pillow is too cold. That freaks you out. Puppies, also, are great.
3) You do not read things unless they are glossy, colorful things with lots of pictures and exclamation points. I know this because you wrote “Us Weekley [sic]” when prompted to list your favorite books.
4) Some mysterious person with a one-letter name (-R) once said, “the blue one!” That is apparently one of your favorite quotations, as is “your [sic] totaly [sic] paying for that," a funnyism attributed to a person named -M.
5) You do NOT like when people ignore your phone calls. They are jerks.
6) You like sweet kisses.
7) I can tell by that heavily-shadowed, super-dramatic, overly-filtered profile pic of 1/8 of your out-of-focus face that you’re very, very beautiful. And, like, artistic. Look at all that negative space! Where was this taken? An aquarium? It's soooo ambient.
8) You're in a troubling amount of pictures, and I'm convinced you know every twentysomething in D.C. Wading through your indexed albums (SUMMER, FREINDS [sic], RANDOM), though, I'm having trouble differentiating one orange-skinned blonde from another. They all look the same to me. The babe--I mean, the girl--pretending to lasso that fauxhawked dude in album 2, picture 12…is she the same one spilling that obnoxious cocktail with the obtuse novelty straw in album 9, picture 48?
9) Politically, you are “moderate.”
10) Judging by your last four status updates, things are not going very well for you right now.
11) Emoticons? You’re for ‘em!
12) When it comes to religious views, you are “...”. (I have no idea how to punctuate the end of that sentence.) I don’t know what "..." means. Do you worship an ellipsis?
13) You “love to have fun” and you “love laughing.”
14) That David Nicholson guy wants to get in your pants. He’s posted on your wall six times since yesterday evening. He, like you, doesn’t shy from emoticons.
I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. ...
Being an irresponsible hedonist, I’ve whooped it up with the best of ‘em.
Can in hand, fist punching at the sky, freakin’ to a verse or a sledge riff or a guttural yelp emanating from stereos so loud they oppress every ear in range, awash in sweat, dreaming romanticized dreams of supple women and rogue adventure and decades that now exist only on moving film and in photographs and dreaming also of Europe and any place that is not my own, spending money I do not have on things that might provide--if even for a fleeting moment--reminder of why I’m alive, voraciously researching life’s curious minutiae (what hue is mauve, exactly?) by reason of pride, driving far too fast on a too-dark road, staying out past hours of decency and trailing the sun, saying all the wrong things whilst cowering under the dubious umbrage of proper intentions, wondering how some electric human beings--those who “get it”--manage to experience two hundred years of life in less than forty, grasping profound epiphanies while intoxicated from lack of sleep or overabundance of stimulae (and beer), laughing at the world, in on the joke, back behind the curtain interrogating the wizard.
Anyway, the reason I got on about all that hedonism junk is that I took in a ridiculously good film over Thanksgiving weekend, one that realerted me to the single greatest pleasure--running--I’ve ever known.
Nothing approaches the organic, corporeal high of a brisk 10-miler in the dark. There's really nothing else like it.
Sarah Cate, this one’s for you. Thanks for telling it like it is.
About a month ago I received this message in my Yahoo! inbox:
Elwood! The long awaited sports blog #2 just came across my eyes! Ok. Here's the deal, I am unhappy with it. But this is a good thing. Now you know that I really mean "that's awesome" when I say "that's awesome" and it's not just me being a kiss up or something. Elwood, that blog was not awesome. I was really looking forward to some insight to this huge mystery about you---you ran cross country in college?? Damn right you were sick of writing.
Sarah’s right; that blog was not awesome. Here’s part three (there will be a fourth, too—one running entry probably won’t suffice).
The aforementioned film (“The Long Green Line”) is a documentary about Joe Newton (ultra-tiny pic at right), who may be the finest high school cross country coach in history. He’s helmed the York squad in Elmhurst, IL for 50 years; 26 of those years have yielded a state title. Quite simply, he’s one of the most dominating, inspirational coaches--of any sport, and at any level--the world has ever seen.
York and Lyons Township (my h.s. alma mater) share a conference, meaning we’ve been on the receiving end of York’s trouncings on more than a few occasions. To put things in perspective, allow me to relate a few cold, non-negotiable figures:
York’s top 5 guys placed 1, 3, 4, 6, 10 at State in ‘99, making for a 24 point total (to determine a team score, one takes the sum of the finishing places). For comparative purposes, consider that the second-place team, Schaumburg, scored 139. It’s disgusting how convincingly York flattened their competition. Illinois--like California, Texas and other large, densely-populated states--boasts terrific depth and quality in prep cross country, but you wouldn’t know it by those results. York's 24-point performance came during the fall of my senior year. I was in the race.
I worked my ass off to compete in that meet. As a freshman, four years prior, I’d barely managed a 6:00 mile. Completely neophytic in all things running and grossly underdeveloped (I entered high school measuring in at just over five feet and barely 100 pounds), I hadn’t yet shown any real promise. During practice runs I lingered at the rear of the pack, clopping along in ill-fitting shoes.
Four years and a few thousand miles later, I toed the line at the state meet representing our top 7 (we numbered about 85 in total), competing for a school that hadn’t reached the state finals as a team since the 70’s. To earn our berth, we’d subverted a decades-long drought by placing third in our Sectional meet the week prior.
Let’s rewind, though. I logged 508 miles in the summer of ’99 (works out to about 6.5 per day), and that’s on top of the miles I walked while caddying. Seeing as I worked nearly every day that summer, I probably averaged 50 miles a week over at the country club. After four or five hours of bag-carrying, I’d arrive home, switch over to running tee and shorts and set off on my evening run--a solitary, cathartic affair.
Day One. I was ready. We were ready. Things went accordingly. Every day we put one foot in front of the other.
A month before state, I clocked my best performance to date: 16:33 on a hilly, slow three-mile course, good for 4th on the team. I’ll be the first to admit that time isn’t particularly impressive, but I felt smooth and controlled throughout, suggesting that I was ready to uncork a biggee in the coming weeks. Three days later, I lowered my mile best to 4:51 during a time trial on the track.
Then disaster struck. For reasons unknown, I peaked nearly three weeks early. My 16:33 was the apex, the toppermost, the high point, the gold star of my season. After that, the ol’ bod let me down. I felt sluggish and fatigued during practices, competed poorly in the Regional meet and went from being our 4th guy to our 7th (only 7 run).
Sectionals was particularly painful, selfishly speaking. Our team got third, as I said, and pandemonium ensued. LT had eclipsed all expectations, but I’d run one of the worst races of my high school career. Struggling through a pathetically slow last mile, utterly spent, I was our 7th and final finisher. When I heard we’d made it, I cried as I hadn’t cried in years. It was one of the greatest feelings of my life, albeit bittersweet. All those miles, all those practices, all those late-nite runs borne of desperation and a vague vision, took on new meaning. We were actually heading to the state finals. I couldn’t believe it. There’s an amateurish home video floating around somewhere; one of the parents shot it that day on a camcorder. I remember seeing my face upon replay and being taken aback. Is that what I look like when I cry?
Days later, I faced the unenviable task of appealing to my head coach for the chance to compete at the Big Show. My performances in the preceding weeks hardly qualified me for the task, but I pleaded my case. I remember breaking down in tears in the locker room, overcome. Coach, I said, I put in the miles, I’ve put in four years of miles. I’ve dreamed of this moment since I first fell in love with the sport, back when I was a freshman. Hell, I've been in our top 5 for the majority of the season. He didn’t answer me just then. Mike, he said, we’ll decide this on race day. Be ready to go.
One week after sectionals we took a chartered van to Peoria, Illinois. I awoke on the morning of the meet with my fate still hanging in the balance. Warmed up with the team, breathed it all in (to this day, the smells of fall make me ache for cross country), laced up a pair of well-worn spikes, safety-pinned a paper number to my torso, right across the abdominals. Wasn’t until ten minutes before the race that my coach took me aside and told me I’d be competing.
So then the gun went off, four years reduced to a race lasting just north of a quarter of an hour. I ran poorly, but the team impressed. Our top guy, Brendan Gaffney, grabbed 4th in 14:33(!), running the race of his life in the process. We secured 8th as a team, a solid showing. At the finish (I refuse to enter my time--you can look it up if you wish), we were greeted by an army of supporters, many of them crying those same tears I’d cried the week before. I grinned, stupidly, thrilled to be alive and fit and involved in such a beautiful sport, surrounded by the greatest friends and teammates one could hope for. As seems to be a trend, I look back on that day and wish I knew how to embrace such a scene in all its fragile, picturesque sublimity without sacrificing any detail. Alas, I’ve relegated it to fuzzed memory, a memory I’ve reconstructed for the better. ...
A few nights ago I dreamt a very revealing dream, one that drew attention to the irrational nature of my being.
It was beyond bizarre, this dream. I’d decided to run for Vice President of the United States, a procedural impossibility for more than a few reasons: I a) boasted zero experience (local or national) in public office, b) was running at my current age of 25, which disqualified me on account of my being ten years too young for the position in question, c) had no campaign money and d) was running for an office that one cannot run for. One must be nominated by his or her political party.
Owing to a sitcomish series of events, Elwood advanced thru a few primary-like things without encountering formidable opposition of any kind. Suddenly, inexplicably, only one man remained between me and the veep chair. Nationwide polls showed me leading this dude by a very slim margin (52 to 48) hours before the final votes were to be cast. The Vice Presidency was all but mine! Oddly, I remember no debates, no public appearances, no television spots, no self-promotion of any kind. People kept voting me thru to the next round, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure why. I think I was still living in Brooklyn, just hanging out.
Here’s where things got weird. I recall a sudden, distinct urge to get the hell outta Dodge and forego the rest of my run. I realized--in a moment of panic--that I wasn’t cut out for the job, but my reasoning was completely ass-backwards. Rather than concede the obvious, blinding truth (that my political non-experience rendered me useless in high public office), I decided that I didn’t want to purchase a new suit and participate in debates and whatnot (in the flawed universe within my dream, the Vice President apparently debates after securing his post). That was my reasoning.
In other words, my fears were juvenile and utterly baseless. It's kinda like being afraid of spaghetti because someone mugged you once while you vacationed in Rome. In this dream, I was fully prepared to piss away my political dreams for something so petty as a wardrobe upgrade.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I suppose my most prescient fear was one I suffer from in real life: the fear of public speaking. There are few things which frighten me more than a lone, naked microphone turned away from three or four hundred expectant faces (an aside: Jerry Seinfeld once pointed out that, “According to most studies, people’s number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means the average person, if you go to a funeral, you’re better off in the casket than giving the eulogy.”). The sudden realization that one of my duties as Vice President would be to speak in public settings--under America’s scrutinous eyeball--proved too much for me.
My dream reinstated something I’ve known for years; time and again I allow my fears to get the best of me, preventing me from taking definitive action. As a case in point, I’ve actually shied from jobs and social situations that might require me to get up in front of people. This cowardice shames me. Fears are to be isolated and conquered, not reinforced.
It’s one aspect of my being, however, that I’m determined to change. This dream woke me up (both literally and figuratively) and slapped me around a bit. Life’s too short to allow for the influence of unfounded fears.
A dream analyst would probably have something to say about me running for Vice President rather than going for the whole enchilada, too, but that’s a post for another day. ...
Alright ever’body: shut yer yappers, flip those ballots and mark your selection with an X. Choose only one of the five, please…
1) ___You embrace the so-called Oxford comma (also known as the serial comma). 2) ___You reject the so-called Oxford comma. 3) ___You neither embrace nor reject the so-called Oxford comma, for you have no idea what an Oxford comma is. 4) ___You drown, all your writing, with as many commas, as you can, muster, because commas, are great, and, the more, commas the better, so you’re for ‘em, the Oxford commas, whatever they are. 5) ___U hate commas omg their so annoyying and given the choice U prefer to comunnicate ONLY LIKE THIS GRAMMER BE DAMMED HEHE LOVE U LIZA!!!
…and, while you’re at it, please X one of three options down at the bottom of the page:
6) ___You kinda like the innocuous Vampire Weekend, you guess. 7) ___You kinda dislike the innocuous Vampire Weekend, or whatever. 8) ___You have never listened to Vampire Weekend.
Now fold it up real tight and drop it off in one of these wooden boxes. We’ll tally* them all up later.
Your author, this blogger, very much disapproves of the Oxford comma and cares not for Vampire Weekend, band behind the breezy, weightless “Oxford Comma” (first line: “Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?”). Within the confines of the above rubric, I’m all of a 2) and ¾ of a 7). That said, I grudgingly admit there’s a time and a place for that stiff-collared protuberance (the comma, not the band), though it’ll be a cold day in hell ‘fore I recognize Missour-ah as a state!
Before we proceed, let’s identify and define this grammatical eyelash I insist on blathering about. Lay your peepers on these two statements:
a) Soundgarden, Bush and The Toadies were all decent 90s bands. b) Soundgarden, Bush, and The Toadies were all decent 90s bands.
Close observation of statement b) reveals an added comma after Bush; that, folks, is the Oxford comma. Such commas are employed after the penultimate item in a list, right before the conjunction. Both a) and b) are acceptable sentences, technically speaking. Just as a fellow might spell grey (my preferred spelling) with an e OR an a, one sha’nt be chastised for utilizing (or shunning) the Oxford comma as he sees fit.
The literary community seems a bit divided on the issue, and I’ve yet to detect a decisive trend in either direction. Author/pop culture enthusiast Chuck Klosterman proudly wields the comma, and you needn’t look further than the title of his most well-known book (Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs) to suss him out! His seemingly superfluous comma drove me crazy ‘fore I even cracked the spine.
Last night on the subway I thumbed thru this week’s Onion and came across Klosterman’s guest review of Axl’s Chinese Democracy (an inspired piece, btw). Here’s the caboose of a rather long-winded sentence from the review:
“…a few Robert Plant yowls, dolphin squeaks, wind, overt sentimentality, (←!!!!!) and a caustic modernization of the blues.”
There it is again! Newman!
Needing a grammatical brush up (and preparing to cry foul on Klosterman), I appealed to Wikipedia. Turns out there are very specific instances where that extra comma resolves contextual ambiguity. For that reason (it pains me to admit this), the clunky Oxford deserves a fair shake.
Take Teresa Nielsen Hayden's book dedication (this was pulled straight from the serial comma Wikipedia entry):
To my parents, Ayn Rand and God.
The absence of that second comma makes for a bit of confusion. Who are her parents? Ayn Rand and God? Unlikely. Let’s airbrush in the ol’ Oxford:
To my parents, Ayn Rand, and God.
Ah, better!
Chuck's in the clear, as am I. We’re all** in the right, commatically speaking, so long as we're careful not to misrespresent the listed items.
Been well over a month since my last music blog. Too long, I say. Too long!
Let’s start with the shows.
Wire.
Badass Brits Wire (heyday: 1977-1979, a three-year span yielding three of the greatest albums—Pink Flag, Chairs Missing and 154—of all time) performed a free* concert at the Fillmore on October 9th. Only problem?
*tickets required for entry.
Naturally—no surprise, really—I found out about the show four days too late, meaning every last ticket had been released/issued to the general public ‘neath my unsuspecting nose. Shit, I wailed, forehead in palm. One of the greatest bands of the past thirty years playing a freebie in MY city and I’ll be sitting at home o'er a bowl of mac ‘n’ cheese!
Craigslist. Please, I pecked out, my tears messing the screen. Please! I’ll giveya 10 apiece for the pair, whatdya say? No takers. All’s I encountered were greasy opportunists asking 35 or 40 bucks or even higher, yellow bastards the lot of ‘em. Mike’s morale made for the cellar. Day of the show I spent the better part of the afternoon scouring Craigslist for one of those kindly samaritan types I’m always reading about, my hopes snorkeling about in a muddied puddle reserved for wagon tires.
But lo! a white dove nestled square on my checkered beret just as the clouds parted like a biscuit, revealing soft, buttered skies and all the nectars of the world. Some dude in Brooklyn responded to my desperate pleas via electronic mail, reaffirming—in one fell swoop—my faith in humanity. You want ‘em? he said. Come an’ get ‘em, but make it quick. Leaving for the Village in 20 mins. I Billy Ellioted to the train, heels clicking all the while in cartoonish fashion. Sure ‘nuff this swell fellow, an altruist of the highest order, handed over two golden tickets, two of ‘em, one and then another, a pair! What do I owe you, bub? I coughed out, weary from all the heel-clicking. Nada, said he. They were free, I didn’t pay nuthin’. Enjoy the show.
So no time for dalliance I rang my buddy John quick as you please, burbling all over the place: “John I gotta ticket for ya to Wire you know them right of course you do you were the one ‘ntroduced me anyway free Irving show tonight in ‘bout an hour let’s go I’ll meet you ‘round Union ‘fore sundown eh?” He bit. Sure Mikey, he said. I’ll be there.
Wire. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Top three even (Iggy's still #1). Wire were professional, tight. Nary a stray note, nary a wasted motion. All these Nickelback shits and pansy Daughtry dreamers could learn a thing or two from Wire. Rock is work. Rock ain’t easy. Rock is not G-D-A and then a chorus and some carboned Perry-esque falsetto thrown in for good measure. Rock is precision and energy and INNOVATION and sweat and subversion and determining when to scrap convention for five or ten or twenty seconds of sinew and grind and unhinged whammyage. Wire (all three of the attached pics, btw, were taken at the Fillmore show) exceeded all expectations, foregoing slower numbers in favor of aggressive, bass-heavy pulls from their early catalogue. For those new to Wire, I recommend you start with Chairs Missing, their 1978 sophomore release. Sonic perfection. Bands don’t get much better than this.
Here's "Heartbeat" from Chairs Missing.
A Place To Bury Strangers.
Saw these fellas twice during CMJ week (Oct. 21-25). In a fitting close to the summer, I attended both shows with my buddy Lucas, a dear friend of mine who I met ‘round five months ago at, um, an outdoor Strangers concert.
These dudes are super loud. So loud, in fact, that they’ve taken to distributing earplugs at the door like My Bloody Valentine. Faint of heart and faint of ear ain’t welcome in their parts. They’re damn proud of their well-endowed sound, too, proud enough even to (self-)proclaim themselves The Loudest Band In Brooklyn, a tag which ain’t misleading in the least.
Lucas and I (and Travis, who joined us for the second show) rocked the free earplugs, but I’d be lying if I said those mufflers were entirely necessary. During the second show (2 a.m. on the morning of the 26th, a mere eight hours after their afternoon set) I said sorry, ears to my ears and discarded all that foam after the third or fourth song. You know what? I didn't go deaf. No ringing/tinnitus. I’ve gone plugless at an A Place To Bury Strangers concert and lived to tell the tale.
To be fair, though, we were forty feet from the stage. My testimonial might not jive with those who braved the stacks full-on from three, four feet and had their ears blown off.
But, shit, enough about their volume. Great, Mike, we get it. Their amps go to 11. Why don't you tell us about their SOUND?
Well, they’re the real deal. Call them what you will, genrenize them how you will, but there's no denying they're one of the more intriguing noise acts emerging from the New York scene.
APTBS are NOT a shoegaze band, and to label them as such is to misrepresent them. They’re onto something else entirely. Yes, they’re into crunch and fuzz. Yes, they’re noise obsessives. Yes, they’re out to challenge and disrupt. That said, they have one thing that shoegaze bands, by definition, sorely lack: wicked stage presence (see top pic!).
Guitarist Oliver Ackermann tears a few pages from the notebooks of Sonic Youthers Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo (and Hendrix and Townshend and...), raping his vile instrument and wresting from its strings an irreverent, incendiary attack directed at the brain’s very core, probably the part that processes wonder and sublimity.
They make great use of strobe, too.
Check the vid.
Sure, there’ve been other shows, but none I feel like documenting at the present time.
Rather, I’m gonna list a few songs that have been rockin’ my world:
Soft Cell—“Insecure Me” COIL—“The Last Amethyst Deceiver” Queens of the Stone Age—“Never Say Never” (cover) Caribou—“Melody Day” Yo La Tengo—“Moby Octopad” Suicide—“Ghost Rider” Yeasayer—“Wait For the Summer” Grizzly Bear—“Knife” The Doors—“The Soft Parade” Gillian Welch—“Ruination Day (Pt. 2)” Beach House—“Master of None” CAN—“Vitamin C” Morphine—“Let’s Take A Trip Together” Paul Simon—“Slip Sliding Away” Charles Manson (yes, THAT Charles Manson)—“Look At Your Game, Girl" ...
I come before you half the man I used to be, a humbled and broken vestige of my former self.
Times like these I’m reminded of that great thinker (a Bostonian, surely) who proffered,
"THOU shalt not, but for a fool, venture into faire New Amsterdam with only thy walking sticke and flimsee foote-cloth as companie, for foote of a pleasante flesh and con-crete of firmest tread ought never fratonise nor mairie. Walke, then, and paye no mind, but you’d well to bend thy ear and taketh note; ye shall henceforth suffer paine of the ankle and pull of the crotche. Wince ye muste, and wince ye shall."
Well put.
Today I pullethed my crotche and suffered great paines of the ankle while walking the entire length of Manhattan from north to south. I also bruised the lateral musculature of my left foot, resulting in a pronounced limp. Your protagonist chose unwisely his wardrobe: dubious footwear, thin socks and invasive, motion-restricting blue jeans. When the sky fell and Aretha postmaturely took to the stage for her song of death, I Tiny-Timmed into Battery Park nine hours and twenty miles removed from Broadway Bridge, victorious and beaten both.
Surely this warrants more discussion in a later blog, as it’s hilarious. Sleep, now, for the dawn will fast and soon and an invalid am I.
(Both photos are from today's adventure. First was snapped at 208th, the second at South Street Seaport.) ...
This entry, though it’s gonna be about writer David Foster Wallace (and me, since I’m intrusive), is not an obit. Every major news outlet in America supplied one of those in the days following his death, so to attempt another would be redundant. I’m writing about Wallace because he’s blown my mind twice in the last month.
I’ve never read Infinite Jest, Wallace’s tree-killing doorstop, though I intend to do so soon. On two recent occasions—once with Marlo on a bench at Black and White tavern, the other with Travis over a burger at Applebees (har har)—I’ve been alerted to his genius by literary people I know and trust. Bolstered by their endorsements, I pounded a fist in my brain on a table in my brain and shouted, “that settles it! I’m gonna read David Foster Wallace, that guy who wrote that freakin’ humongous book! Infinite Jest, you scare the balls offa me, but I’ll soon be cracking your spine.” Maybe he’s worth checking out after all, I thought. Maybe the hype is actually well-deserved, unlike, say, the curious praise for another Dave, Dave Eggers, and his Incredible Staggering Pregnant Ego novel of Genius, which—if I may borrow a few words from comic Lisa Lampanelli—sucks out loud. Eggers, you owe me $16.21 and an explanation.
My first exposure to Wallace’s writing came in a very unlikely way. While working at Fordham University back in September (this was a week after he commited suicide at 46), I sat around one afternoon on a plastic chair in a windowless room, bored as shit. My task that day had been to deliver mail to all the law professors, but when that wrapped at two pee em I had very little else to do so I flipped through a newspaper that I rarely understand and almost never read: The Wall Street Journal. That day's Journal ran Wallace’s commencement speech to the 2005 Kenyon College graduates on the back page. Here’s a passage:
“…our present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom to be lords of our own skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The real important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default-setting, the “rat race”—the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing…”
Before the day was up I’d read the speech four or five times, awed by Wallace’s intellect, message and choice of subject matter. Rather than offer up a generic, inspirational speech—“many of you will go on to do great things, the torch has been passed,” etc.—Wallace spoke frankly and matter-of-factly about the world, warning of pitfalls ahead and encouraging the graduates to subvert those “default-settings” we’ve been programmed with from birth.
There will be days, he said, when you’ll find yourself in a poorly designed supermarket, vexed and impatient. The overweight woman blocking the narrow aisle with her cart (and her body) slows your progress. You snatch at seemingly random items—some you need, some you surely don’t—and transfer them to a handcart, finally returning to the front of the store after fifteen minutes spent slaloming around oblivious housewives, crying children, teens broadcasting inanities into a cell phone...but wait! Your troubles have only just begun, because now you’re queued behind half a dozen sad-faced simpletons hoarding their pathetic, non-nourishing items (which they sadly load onto the sad conveyor) as the sloth behind the register receives on-the-job training. The music bleating out from overhead—a soulless, plasticine, FM-friendly waltz of death—sucks, all the lighting is yellowed and artificial and unflattering to the skin, and you want nothing more badly than to be home, away from it all. To top it off, the check-out line is six or eight carts deep and the woman in front of you has about twenty coupons in her white-knuckled fist.
Here, Wallace argues, choice enters the equation. You can CHOOSE how to approach this situation…it’s all a matter of perspective. Our first instinct, as anybody knows, is to damn the vile scenario and curse beneath our breath. We’ve cursed it before, and we'll curse it again. Sun rises, sun sets. However, Wallace points out, it’s actually
“…within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down. Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that’s capital-T True is that you get to decide how you’re gonna try to see it…”
A valid point. We spend most of our lives operating on autopilot. To approach a potentially awful situation with wide-eyed wonder (after all, we’re aLIVE!) is not easy, but should we defy all odds and pivot that scene for the better, we've succeeded in conquering the moment. On those rare, rare instances where I’ve been in a “consumer-hell” situation and marvelled at the wonderful madness of it all, I’ve known what it is to be a fully autonomous human being, ecstatic and fully sated.
I recommend you all check out the Kenyon speech, which can probably be found online somewhere.
Then I read Wallace’s “Consider the Lobster,” his 2004 essay for Gourmet magazine, which is all sortsa brilliant. He was assigned to cover the Maine Lobster Festival, an event held every July in the state’s midcoast region. As you might expect from a writer of his intellect and ingenuity, Wallace submitted a highly unconventional article, one that almost didn’t go to press.
Now, I’ve never read Gourmet, but I’m assuming it’s a relatively straightforward cooking mag for food aficianados. In all likelihood, its readers are not after dense, challenging literature...what they're after are fresh recipes (looking back at these last two sentences, I realize Wallace would have tsk tsked my journalistic passivity). Wallace’s article on lobster was a dense, challenging dissertation of the highest order. Anything you’ve EVER wanted to know about lobsters was included within—anatomy, mating habits, history in the culinary arts, brain capacity, pain threshold, preparation of, etc. Brilliant approach, for two reasons:
1) Wallace researched his ass off for this article. You have to admire the guy for his commitment to furious study.
2) His decision to cut straight to the lowest common denominator (lobster, obviously) is what separates him from many of his contemporaries. Let's face it: most writers assigned to such a festival would likely provide a detailed piece concerning the menu, venue, crowds, ambience. Not Wallace. When his brain runs off, he encourages (rather than apprehends) his spastic imagination, which accounts for nearly 80 percent of this article being about a crustacean, not a festival.
This afternoon on the 4 train I finished reading Charles Bukowski’s The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps, a collection of his later poems. It failed to impress, but only cuz I’ve read enough of his prose to know what I was in for (i.e. the same old themes, this time cut up into stanzas and disguised as poetry).
To be clear, I'm not launching a polemical assault on ol’ Buk. The man knows how to write, and he’s most always—to quote Modest Mouse—a “pretty good read.” I'm hard-pressed to name a writer more approachable on a minimal, guttoral level; Buk chronicles his own failed, depraved existence with humor and self-flagellating earnestness, a rare feat. Joes from all over encounter his poems and adopt the “if that old pervert can do it, I can do it too!” credo, and why not? Buk’s just like them! We’ve all met a prospective Bukowski or two, it's just most of ’em don’t take time away from their leering and their farts to write it all down. What’s to hate about a writer who drinks mammoth amounts of beer, lives out a paycheck-to-paycheck existence and, when he does write, mercifully refrains from Updiking you with his muscular vocabulary?
He's not out to fool anybody. You know what you’re getting into when you pick up a Bukowski. There's no aces up the sleeve.
But.
Back to the book in question. Near the end—the last forty pages or so—I tired of the poetry of Mr. Buk. I’ve always figured that If you’ve read one Buk, you’ve read them all. Booze, women, whores, horses, Los Angeles, stained sheets, Mahler, etc., etc. Repeat. I know the formula, but that didn’t stop me from breaking out the whine (no pun intended…ha!) today on the train: "C’mon, Buk, shake it up a bit!"
But then ol’ Buk came thru in the clutch! Yanked up the rug and sent me flying on my ass. He closed the collection with this poem, a dandy, in response to my gripe:
wine pulse
this is another poem about 2 a.m. and I’m still at the machine listening to the radio and smoking a good cigar. hell, I don’t know, sometimes I feel just like Van Gogh or Faulkner or, say, Stravinsky, as I sip wine and type and smoke and there’s no magic as gentle as this. some critics say I write the same things over and over. well, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but when I do the reason is that it feels so right, it’s like making love and if you knew how good it felt you would forgive me because we both know how fickle happiness can be. so I play the fool and say again that it’s 2 a.m. and that I am Cezanne Chopin Celine Chinaski embracing everything: the sweet of cigar smoke another glass of wine the beautiful young girls the criminals and the killers the lonely mad the factory workers, this machine here, the radio playing, I repeat it all again and I’ll repeat it all forever until the magic that happens to me happens to you. ...
2.5)Golf—the kilted feller who dreamed up this clownish pastime was a masochist of the highest order, a sick jokester. I wouldn’t wish golf on my worst enemy. Most of the golfing populace—myself included—doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing out there. Tiger Woods we ain’t. Charles Barkley we is:
I’ve never been much of a golfer. My all-time best for 9 holes stands at a laughable 46, a score Mr. Woods posted at the age of 4. That being said, I know a great deal about the game, the result of twelve years of humble service as a caddie. Allow me to relate a story, fill a little white space. Why not?
When i was 14, 15—somewhere in there—I toiled one impossibly hot summer day for a grease-haired man named Furlong. He was rich and he liked his drink and my sole duty was to maneuver his golf cart and replenish the beer when it got low. He made this very clear from the start: “Mike, I don’t want yardage or conversation, and I really don’t require any help on the greens—you’re gonna be Watcher of the Beer. Drive the cart or whatever, make sure we have ice.” Furlong gulleted inhuman amounts of Budweiser that afternoon and got hisself good and wobbly. We’re talkin’ bubbles out the mouth whenever he burped and three of everything where there once was one.
When we approached the tee box for 16, a short par-four, greasy Furlong summoned me from the cart. “Mikey,” he said, “hit a drive.” He handed me tee, club, shiny-brite Titleist. I smoked the cover off that damn ball, Bunyaned the thing into the clouds. Still unsure how it happened, really, but somehow physics and Elwood collided in impressive ways for less than one second and that ball soared straight and true, high and far, cleared an oft-unclearable bunker with yards to spare. All told, the thing probably rolled 295 or so, a robust, executive poke from a midget with a concave chest. Furlong’s bloodshot eyes nearly popped from his sockets. It was (is, probably) the greatest drive I’d ever struck, the single purest swing of my life. Furlong urged me to play out the rest of the hole, convinced I was a freakish prodigy or something.
You already know the story that follows; it’s been Charlie Brown’s since 1950. I tripped over my own ankles, missed the football entirely and posted a double-bogey six, debunking Furlong’s Mike-is-golf’s-next-white-hope theory in a damn hurry.
2.7) Roller Hockey—yup, I played this one, too. Wasn’t very good at stopping. I spent a lot of time plowing into people.
4)Running—what to say? Running was my life. Still is, in small ways. I visit letsrun.com (a community forum/news site for runners) daily, though I haven’t trained in earnest since college.
My advance apologies for the post you’re about to skim/half-read. It’s gonna be a) all about sports b) somewhat uninteresting and c) totally narcissistic.
For reasons unknown, I actually cared about last night’s Red Sox/Rays game and tuned in with vested interest, making for an atypical Saturday evening. You should probably know that I haven’t followed professional baseball in any real capacity since the strike in ’94. Perhaps I watched because two nights prior the BoSox had rallied heroically from seven runs down to force that sixth game, or perhaps it was the fact that my precious Cubbies Munsoned all over the place during their pitiable Series bid (leading me to the BoSox by reason of vicariosity?), or perhaps I still get off on the precocious joy of sport, regardless of the players involved.
Seeing as I’ve experienced a sporting rebirth of sorts—the Bears pique my attentions in small ways, as does George Will’s Bunts, his love letter to the game of baseball—it only seems appropriate to write it all down. What follows is my life in sports, told chronologically.
1)Baseball—no florid word(s) can adequately express my adoration for this game, nor the role it played in my life from the ages of 5-12. Jerry Seinfeld once monologued about how children think of nothing but candy, and how parents, friends, teachers, siblings become mere obstacles in the way of getting more candy. Well, that was my childhood, 'cept baseball superceded candy by many, many miles. Our old house in Brookfield, IL was flanked by a modest lot—we cleverly dubbed it the “side lot”—that acted as a ballpark of sorts. My neighbor and best friend, Brian Schmidt, joined me out there every day for batting practice with splintered bat and tennis ball. The goal? Hit it high and far, windows be damned. Sun, rain, wind, snow—didn’t matter. You'd find us in the side lot, decimating great patches of grass with muddied sneakers.
Then there was Little League, of course, and then a fall league, and then All-Stars (assuming I’d played well that year), and then, upon turning 13, the modern-day equivalent of a Babe Ruth League. In between games and practices, we’d spend entire days Wiffle-balling in Fontana, WI, pausing only to cool in the lake.
My folks, bless 'em, treated me to Cubs games, humoring me by being first in to Wrigley and last out so their idiot son could gape at batting practice and bumrush the players' gate after the game in search of autographs.
Somehow—it strains the brain—I collected somewhere between 300 and 400 Ryne Sandberg cards (I’ve forgotten the exact number). Every crinkled, desperate, sweating dollar that entered my palm during those formative(?) years went towards baseball cards. Worse than any junkie, I was. Up until recently, my bedroom in LaGrange Park sported full-on Cubs wallpaper, ceiling to floor, complete with full-sized posters.
But I digress.
Back to the field. I alternated between second base and the mound, even pitched a no-hitter once. The news clipping is in a scrapbook somewhere, probably sufficiently yellowed by now. My life plan was decided from a very early age: I’d get absurdly good at this game so Ryne Sandberg, upon retirement, would insist I succeed him at second base. I pitied all the other kids who didn’t know what they were gonna do with their lives.
At 13, though, we moved to a bigger ballpark and my batting average plummeted, infuriating me. Time to move on, I thought. Time to move on, I said. Enough! Just like that, it was all over.
2)Basketball—never really made any headlines playing basketball, but I certainly enjoyed playing. My first exposure to the game, if I remember correctly, came in 4th, 5th grade while on the playground at recess. I was far too small and weak to shoot correctly, so I began instituting the “shove,” an aesthetically painful two-wristed heave at the backboard. Wasn’t a very adept ball-handler, nor did I possess the height to hang out near the rim, so I chillaxed at the three-point line and waited for someone to pass it my way (they never did). While attending St. Louise de Marillac, I played on the 5th and 6th grade teams, accomplishing very little offensively (eight points scored in TOTAL) but a great deal defensively (dozens of steals). I was quick. I was fast.
Seventh grade. So many kids showed an interest that my junior high held a tryout. Very big deal. Three days and everything, even notebooks so they could write things about you. The lycra-shorted coaches, in a display of unimaginable cruelty, assigned me to the “A” squad, which is kind of like telling a kid to join in on a Miles session after three weeks of horn lessons. No question about it: I was the worst guy on the team, and by a significant margin.
Wasn’t ’til church league at St. Francis (this was in high school) that I came into my own and developed a wicked three-point shot, which became my bread ‘n’ butter. I still didn’t know how to drive the lane or handle the ball with any real proficiency, but I could shoot the lights out from the arc. During one game I had twenty-one points, all threes.
p.s. As an aside—cuz this is funny—my buddy Scott and I once played a one-on-one game to 1,000 in his driveway. Took over one full month to complete. The final score? Scott: 1,000, Mike: 996. This is where the story ends.
p.p.s. Ah, wait. Before I move on to sport #3, there’s one dig/jab I must administer, 'case he’s reading: Danny, my younger brother and a FAR superior baller, to this day cannot defeat me one-on-one. So, like, take that.
3)Swimming—Greg, a buddy, talked me into coming out for the freshman swim team at Lyons Township, a ludicrous idea. I lasted about one week. Fourth practice in, some muscled dude ‘bout twice my size, a captain or something, informed me I’d be swimming the 500 (not sure exactly how far this is, but it sounded like a damn long way) at the upcoming intersquad, so I peaced out, never to return. No Speedos for me, no siree.
I’ve pissed away roughly one-thirtieth of my life on a paint-chipped bench, waiting. That’s a lot of time! I’m exaggerating that 1/30th statistic, of course, but not as greatly as one might suppose. From the ages of 13-15 (my early caddie years at LaGrange Country Club), sitting was the name of the game. I got very good at sitting. Very good, I say, because while sitting I learned and mastered many indispensable card games/life skills, including but not limited to:
hearts spades poker how to curse
Loopers (slang for caddies) sleep less than your average truck driver. I'd rise terrifically early, rub the night from my eyes, pedal my bicycle in hellcat fashion past the manicured lawns of my Burtonian suburbia, chain ‘er up in the rear parking lot and jog through that Midwest dew over to the cold, unforgiving wood of the caddie picnic tables. After scouting a proper squat for my khakied bum, I'd cheek it on a gym towel—my makeshift cushion—with chin in palm, as if posing for a Rockwell or something. That’s just the way it was, day after week after sepia year. Very Sisyphean.
We sat for varied amounts of time, our waiting period mostly determined by caddie rank. The little craps—that was me, if we’re still groovin’ in ‘97—claimed “B” caddie status, meaning that we were the lowliest turds in the sewer. “B” caddie status carried with it lots of non-responsibility. Synonyms for “B” caddie: seat-filler, virgin, guinea pig, ashtray, (sacrificial) lamb, chum (not chum the buddy, chum the bloody shark bait). There were like a million of us, meaning that our chances of getting out on the golf course—or “on a bag,” in caddiespeak—at any given moment were 1/1,000,000. We sat there politely and longed for pubic hair, careful not to make any sudden movements that might agitate the sharp-tongued piranha (caddies with pubic hair).
Let’s ascend a rung. Assuming you’d done alright as a “B” and didn’t fuck anything up, you might attain a swell promotion of sorts (see: slap on back and firm, bone-crushing handshake) after ‘bout two years and become an "A!" An “A” caddie assumed a role not unlike that of an office manager. You now hovered somewhere in purgatory—certainly not a monarch but not really a boot-licking minion, either—cuz now there’s someone beneath you to humiliate. “A” caddies instructed the “B” caddies when and where to piss and what (the aforementioned urine, sometimes) to eat/lick off the pavement. Ever play Asshole, that one drinking game where you try to get rid of all your cards quickly as you can? “B” caddies=Assholes, “A” caddies=vice-Assholes. Perfect analogy. There were far less than a million “A” caddies, meaning that your odds of securing work on any given day catapulted from 1/1,000,000 to about 1/10, just like that! A swell promotion.
Then, should you crawl thru five hundred yards (and four years) of shit-smelling foulness I still can’t even imagine—that’s the length of five football fields!—you emerge, half-naked, gasping and free, an “Honor” caddie at long last!
Ah, the “Honor” caddies (13-yr-old me bows reverentially). These guys were gods, immortals! They rocked fully-realized facial stubble, drank heroically, chawed on chaw, spoke of women’s bodies as conquistadors speak of golds and spices and measured in at 5’8", 5’10"—Herculean, impossible heights! You’d be a damn fool to speak in their presence. They slapped us around, caned our behinds, ridiculed us until we ran home crying for our mothers. They were bad. They were fierce. There were only about a dozen of them. They carried two bags, one per shoulder, and we carried none at all.
A typical day at LaGrange Country Club:
So now it’s 5:50, sun's still cowering away somewhere, everybody’s cold as shit (our breath is the frost) and the caddie count is as follows: “B”: 1,000,000, “A”: 18, “Honor”: 12. Our caddiemaster (funny term, to be sure, if you haven’t heard it before), a gruff ex-jock named Brian (Coach “K”) Kopecky, barrels into the shack, gruffing under his breath. He’s dragging behind him an industrial-sized garbage bin swelling with a million multi-colored golf tees, each tee sporting a different Sharpied number across the top of it, right across the fat part of the peg where you place the ball. The “B” caddies scamper over like the idiots they (I) are (were—er, are) and select from the pail, drawing one tee apiece. This is the Lottery Of Lotteries, but the Shirley Jackson kind, not the hopeful, optimistic kind. You select a tee with 31, 509, or, God help you, 112,242, forget it—you’re not getting work today. Go home! Cut your losses, pick your nose. That precious Sharpied number becomes your identification number for the next eight-odd hours, a prison badge of sorts. On any given day, 15 or 20 “B” caddies might secure a bag, meaning the other 999,985 unripened tweens pedaled their asses over there for nothing.
BUT we (I) were young and awfully stupid, cuz we’d inevitably snatch up a 41 or 284, or, Christ, a 612,349 and stick around anyway, ignoring logic, precedence, everything. We’d gamble money we didn’t have on card games we didn’t know how to play. We’d listen to tall tales of booze, coke, pregnation and incarceration, mouths agape. The “B” jocks aged ten years in a matter of weeks.
Bukowski once said something to the effect that anything you ever wanted to learn at University could be learned in one day at the horse races. I don’t have the quote in front of me, but you get the gist.
To further that sentiment, I’ll maintain with a straight face that anything you ever wanted to know about capitalism can be learned in four hours at a caddie yard. Those 12 “Honor” caddies controlled 90% of the wealth. They wooed LaGrange CC’s high-end clientele, lived lives of privilege and extravagance, slept with scores of women (or claimed to, anyway) and worked far less hours than their counterparts. No one attempted to unseat them, for fear of “dumpstering,” a very real phenomenon in the shack. Dumpstering is when you take a kid and throw him in a dumpster. The “A” caddies earned modest amounts of cash, which they folded neatly into their billfolds and later deposited into savings accounts at the local bank. “B” caddies scraped and conned and hoarded and deceived, attempting to eke out a proper living.
Let’s discuss that damn graph CNN featured during the Palin/Biden debate.
This empty visual commanded the bottom quarter of the screen (see attached image). To the left, a nifty inform-a-box announced that the ensuing lines—which rose/fell along an axis throughout the debate—represented the opinions of “Undecided Ohio Voters.” Uh. Dare I ask: how many undecided voters? Twelve? 400,000? CNN omitted that minor detail. Silly me, I really oughta keep my mouth shut. They probably know what they’re doing.
Two bipolar lines (green for "men," yellow for "women") leapt about in fits of shocking whimsy. Swell! Let’s genderize the hell outta this thing! Thanks, CNN, for simplifying this terribly confusing debate. My frail little brain wouldn’t know what to make of all this discussion nonsense otherwise. While you’re at it, why not add a few more lines? “Black,” “white,” “bigots,” “humanitarians,” “southerners,” “northerners,” “believers,” “non-believers,” etc. Or howz about we just throw the most liberal person in America and the most conservative in a room and arm each of them with a buzzer? Fastest finger wins!
The Palin/Biden debate was not about graphs. I should have spent more time listening to the WORDS being uttered by the potential LEADERS of our floundering COUNTRY, but the pretty graph monopolized my attentions.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
The graph meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. That little green line—the “men”—shot up when Biden uttered something or other about issue x. Right on, "men." Now, what does this fluorescent protuberance mean? Are these 12 or 400,000 voters agreeing with him on issue x, or did Biden’s wayward commentary serve to draw them ever closer to what’s-her-face, their original leaning? The two axes were never defined. I have no idea
1) who’s manipulating the lines 2) what the lines represent
On the plus side, it took the thinking out of it for tens of thousands of toothless Americans. Shoot, Myrtle, look at that line! It spiked way the hell up there when he said that last part about the health care and whatnot! I think Biden’s on to something…
Enough lies. I’ve placed one hand square on the Bible, right on the fat part. This all happened.
Spring ’03—midway thru my semester abroad in Galway, Ireland—I jetted to England, home of shepherd’s pie and John Cleese and yellowed teeth and London Pride ale, which I sampled (see: drank prodigiously) on the flight over. The steward, addressing my query re: taste/quality of London Pride, gruffed at me that Pride puts hair on the chest. Since I don’t shy away from passive-aggressive challenges very easily, I ordered one up, man that I am. Beer tastes delightful when it’s free, and in ’03 those rinky-dink flights in Europe hadn’t yet imparted the Nazi no-meal policies of our American carriers, meaning that we could sup and drink to our belly’s content without financial consequence. And sup and drink we did. By we, of course, I mean myself.
The short flight from Dublin dumped me off in London, where I was slated to meet with up with one of my high school buddies. I rubbed my chest hairs and surveyed London with eager eyes, quite happy to be alive and out of Chicago. Europe suited me. Still does. Writing this entry pains me in small ways, because I’m in here and London is there.
Anyway, I got antsy and booked a train to Liverpool to visit the land of the Beatles, ringing Greg to inform him that I’d be returning in three to four days. Seven hours later I’m in Liverpool's Lime Street station, giddy and anticipatory. I footed about, drinking it all in, wondering if everybody in this town owns a blue-collared shirt. One might call Liverpool the Detroit of the UK, as it's a place reeking of petty crime, rotting dreams and desperate nostalgia. I loved it immediately.
Let’s fast-forward past the boring stuff.
Here’s what happened to me:
1) I met Allan Williams, first manager of the Beatles (and the man who brought them to Hamburg!), at Beatle mecca The Cavern Club. He was slugging frightening amounts of red wine and spilling all over the place. First thing he slurred at me was so ironical it made me laugh out loud: “Get a…get a feckin’ haircut!” This coming from the manager of four mops who threatened 50's crew cut sensibilities! Looking back, though, I suppose I see his point. At the time my hair was hovering somewhere in the seven- or eight-inch range. I looked like a goddamn hippie, the worst kind. When the night ended and they blinked lights for last call, Allan—sans proper judgment, sans equilibrium—was still burping about, so I guided by arm that unsteady man to his abode, which was only a few short blocks from the Cavern.
2) First night in town I popped into the Jacaranda, a small club the Beatles played during their formative years. I wasted no time befriending an older man named Bernie Evans, who went to school with Paul and George long before anyone cried at the sight of them. He owned the club, if I remember correctly. Bernie sniffed out my fanatical Beatle lust (which I made no effort to hide) and offered to take me downstairs into the old playing space. The basement was not available to the general public—to open it up, Bernie keyed two heavy doors and led me down a flight of dimly-lit stairs. First thing I noticed were the walls (pictured above, filmed below), all heavily painted in wild colors. These murals, Bernie said, were painted by John Lennon and Stu Sutcliffe (original Beatle bassist) in the summer of 1960. I freaked. 1960! These murals preceded their Cavern Club days! I took a few pictures, thanked Bernie, stalked into the night in search of more adventure.
3) Saw Strawberry Fields, the old Salvation Army house.
4) Saw Penny Lane.
5) Saw Mendips, Lennon’s childhood home.
6) Spent two hours on a park bench overlooking Mersey River.
7) Last morning in town, I journalled at a patio table outside the Cavern Club, killing time before my noon train. Fore I could even get a full sentence down, a sleek, black car rolled up from the seeming nowhere and pulled to a stop in front of the venue. Then a stout man in a very nice suit stepped out of the rear door, followed by two men with cameras. The first man posed in front of the Cavern bricks for a series of photographs. I watched the shoot, thinking, “you know what, I’ve seen that man! Who is he?” Then it came to me: Gerry Marsden of Gerry and the Pacemakers! He’s the dude who sang “Ferry Cross the Mersey.” Maybe you’ve heard it. Anyway, I went up and introduced myself to Gerry (pictured above, at right, with Dusty Springfield and Brian Epstein), posed for a photo. Then back to the car and he’s gone, a fitting ending to my Liverpool adventure. Four hours later I’m in London, the world in my palm. ...
“There comes a time in every music obsessive’s life when he knows he has to prove it. The only solution: a pilgrimage. The idea behind the proud tradition of the pop-culture pilgrimage is that, by going to the places where one of your heroes grew up, achieved notoriety, died, or was buried, you can certify your fanship. Once accomplished, you can offer up quantifiable proof to the world that you love your idol entirely.”
—John Sellers, author of Perfect From Now On: How Indie Rock Saved My Life
I pilgrimmed, once. Sophomore year of college I said ahhhhh the hell with it and hemorrhaged $1100 in total on a round-trip coach ticket from O’Hare to Stockholm (connection in Amsterdam) to visit the boyhood home of neo-classical metalist Yngwie Malmsteen (above, heavily photoshopped).
I packed light, fast. No time for superfluities. Tees. Jeans. Socks. Deoderant. Maybe a toothbrush. There were probably boxer shorts in there. I’m not a very good packer. Flight was like any other. We made it all right, no deaths. I got out of the plane and looked straight up. Stockholm! The hostels were all stuffed up like rush hour trains, people falling out the windows. The desk people shook their heads at me, one after the next. I got very irritated whenever they shook their heads. Soon I grew tired of walking and started to sweat. I wished one of them would nod at me and hand me a key, but everywhere it was the same.
Much later a very nice woman with a Bed & Breakfast offered me a decent rate, so I said, “okay.” She removed a key from a large beige envelope and told about the rules. I thought about her rules and said, “okay,” and placed my pack in a wardrobe closet in the bedroom. Then I walked. And then I walked a little further. Yngwie’s place was very far from the Bed & Breakfast. His house is back in a field behind two fences that were built to keep livestock from acting out. It's still there, see for yourself. I hopped the fences. The second one was barbed and it left a small hole in the leg of my jeans.
Closer now, so close. Yngwie! This was a trip twenty years in the making. I grew up with Yngwie (pronounced ING-VAY). My father reared me on Yngwie. There are guitar players and then there is Yngwie. Yngwie is very hard to spell if you’re not careful. Nobody is faster than Yngwie (see vid below!). The man plays very quickly. To me, that’s why he is greatest. All his albums are perfect, but the best is 1985’s Marching Out. Yngwie fuses classical and metal better than Miles Davis fused jazz and rock. I have two Yngwie posters stapled on the wall over my bed. I’m admiring both of them while typing this. They’re very extreme.
After jumping the fence that left the hole in my jeans I encountered a very little man. He was not the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He said nothing at all. He glared at me savagely. I thought this was not good. The omens were foul. “Something the matter?” I said. No reply. I pressed on, one eye peering backwards so as not to be stabbed and one trained the right way, so as not to trip.
A few moments later I made it to the childhood home of Yngwie Malmsteen, metal savior. I stood there in the dirt looking up at it. My mouth was open all the way. I nearly cried. The home is made of wood. The roof is grasses.
Now’s the point in the story where I admit I never went. I don’t know shit about Yngwie Malmsteen. This story’s funnier than the one I was going to tell, though, so that’s gotta count for something. Who travels to Sweden for something like that? And for Yngwie?
Next installment: my real life pilgrimage (no lies). Liverpool, England. Spring ’03. ...
Happy 587th, The Onion. Raise your flutes, people. To the Zweibels!
17) Amazon Recommendations Understand Area Woman Better Than Husband
16) Darwinists Flock to Darwin-Shaped Wall Stain
15) A Gentleman Never Discloses Who Sucked Him Off
14) Aging Pope Blessing Everything In Sight
13) Everyone Involved In Pizza's Preparation, Delivery, Purchase Extremely High
12) Canucks-Blues Game Goes Into Extra-Puck-Time Or Something
11) Fucking Yankees, Reports Nation
10) Kevin Federline, Wife Divorce
9) Wikipedia Celebrates 750 Years Of American Independence
8) (advice column): Ask The Stage Directions To Tennessee Williams' Cat On A Hot Tin Roof
7) Eight-Pound Man Removed From Woman's Vagina
6) Trophy Wife Mounted
5) Insane Clown Posse Gets Ride To Concert From Mom
4) In Search Of A Better Life, Teen Moves Downstairs
3) Space Jam Actor Larry Bird Spotted At Game 2 Of NBA Finals
2) Special Olympics T-Ball Stand Pitches Perfect Game
1)Man Has Sex At Woman
..................
Rumors Swirl Around Palin
Ever Since Sen. John McCain's selection of Gov. Sarah Palin as his running mate, the press has been abuzz with rumors about the former mayor of Wasilla, AK. Here are some of the more persistent rumors (I'm only including one of the eight):
In addition to the five children that the media are aware of—Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig—Palin also has nine secret children: Frag, Moss, Scoot, Skiffer, Minnow, Plow, Snatch, Twiglet, and Drum ...
Every single rock band from the last, say, 45 years convenes for Battle Royal on a desolate farm in southern Kansas. Bare-fisted war. Only one band will survive, though it’ll probably lose its drummer. Let’s cut straight to the action:
Mike: “John, Carl, what’s going on down there?”
John (shouting maniacally, fingers in ears):
“Crazy scene, Mike! See for yourself! Let me pan a bit. For those of you viewing at home, we’re standing on Earl Douglass’ farm in Chetopa, Kansas with every post-’63 rock band. All of ‘em, even the super shitty ones. The Battle Royal you’re about to witness will be a fistfight to the death, no holds barred! Carl and I have seen a few of the heavyweights already. Mike, if you don’t mind waiting a moment, let’s get around this fencing to the south wheat field. More room to move about.”
(lengthy pause, unsteady camera)
“Alright, Mike, we’ve stumbled upon a few of the favorites. There’s Relf and his Yardbirds over there in mod boots smoking their ciggies cool as you please, and that looks an awful lot like—why, yes it is—Henry Rollins (left) and Black Flag spitting through curled lips. One o’ dem honkin’ gobs just missed Tony Iommi! Ozzy Osb—what the…wai…Mike, Ozzy just dropped to his fours and lapped it up, asking Rollins if he’s got any more! This is shapin’ up to be a real show!
“To my left—please pardon the video quality—you’ll see an out-of-focus figure nodding in the corner. Carl thinks it's Scotty Weiland, though it's awful hard to tell from this distance. Someone better get him up, whoever he is, and pull that needle outta his arm. Johnny Lydon was that face you saw just a moment ago...yesterd...SHIT!…he just…my apologies for the colorful language, everybody, but Johnny just called me a scrotal wanker and…dumped a full can of Schlitz over my head, the f—oh, and Jello Biafra, hello Jello.
“Up ahead on those crates you’ll notice two poorly-tressed fellas sporting Detroit tees, probably some shitpunk band who hitchhiked from the gutter outside their garage or something. We’ve seen more than a few forgettable acts this afternoon, Mike, all cut from the same cloth as those Michiganers. You ask me, they’re dead money. This ain’t no kiddie scuffle. That’s David Peel passing out joints from a sandwich bag and grinning a lot…not sure if he knows what he’s getting himself into. He keeps talking about the dope smoking a pope, which seems a little backwards to me.
“All told, Mike, nearly two million bands made it out, based on our rough estimations. Ian Curtis (pictured) and Shannon Hoon, bless ‘em, there they are—reunited with their respective groups. Good to see them both. Here comes Mick Ja—nope, at second glance that’s Steven Tyler. My mistake. Let’s see, lessee, who else. Rivers Cuomo. He’s gonna get his ass kicked. G.G. Allin to my right, nude and covered with feces. Good Christ what a stench…he appears to be breaki…G.G. just punched out six people, Mike, and we haven’t even started! Hard to bet against him. He showed up sans band but with a troupe of sixty intoxicated, bloodied teenagers in tow. Nice to see Chris Martin shaking hands with Jackson Browne—that’s a gesture of sportsmanship you don’t typically see at an event like this. Good for them.
“We’re about to get things underway, Mike, so I’m gonna send it back up to the booth in just a moment. Before I go, though—remember, viewers…this is bare-handed warfare. No guitars or blunt objects allowed. The heavyset guys—Black Francis, Meat Loaf (left), that one fat drummer who tours with McCartney, John Popper, since it appears the pre-weight loss Popper showed up—these are the guys to watch for. Back to you, Mike!”
Place your bets, people. Who’s gonna walk away from this slugfest? I’ve plunked fifteen dollars (roughly one-fifth of my life savings) on.......
GEORGE FUCKING THOROGOOD AND THE FUCKING DESTROYERS
Fuck yeah! They’re great! George wears a cobra snake for a necktie! He drinks alone! He can’t make the rent! He takes his drinks three at a time! He’s had the same haircut for thirty years! He tucks his shirt into his jeans! His key don’t fit no more cuz his woman changed the locks! Best friend is Johnnie Walker! Built a house from rattlesnake hides!
George Thorogood (the badass to your right) was born in a jukebox.
I know nothing about the other Destroyers, but if they’re even 1/8 as tough as Georgie, this fight’s gonna be over in ten seconds flat and I’ll be retiring to a small Irish village with all my winnings (the payback on my Georgie bet involves many, many zeros), where I’ll raise a few dozen sheep whilst drinking green tea and when the air chills I’ll mount my trusty steed and retreat to the nearest town (35 miles away) for peat, kindling and potatoes and if you want to contact me you better have a piece of paper and a quilled pen and a book of stamps. Destroyers, live up to your name! ...
I’ve spent most of the afternoon brooding over my past, and it’s all the fault of one man: Jean-Paul Sartre (pictured). See, I grabbed Being and Nothingness off my bookshelf this morning, thinking I might as well move in a philosophical direction after the minimalist, observational musings of Richard Brautigan, whom (who?—not quite sure) I finished reading yesterday.
To preface, I’ll readily admit that I understand exactly 18% of Jean-Paul Sartre’s writings. He speaks in densities so inpenetrable that I’m usually more prone to flip the page than annotate the margins. Ever’ now and then, though, I stumble across a passage or two that coaxes a few watts out of those dusted-over bulbs in the musty corridors of the brain. Today was one of those days.
I’m sardined on the 3 train, trying vainly to temper my hatred for the grossly overweight people occupying 1.5 seats to either side of me, when snapbam I encounter Sartre’s chapter on the nature/being of the conceptual past. Sartre muses about the relationship (if any) between our previous "lives" and this, the elusive "present" (consider: as I type in real time, the entirety of this entry becomes immediately relegated to my ever-bloating past, if we’re gonna get precise/anal about it...in fact, during the milliseconds spent trying to analyze the current, vaguely tangible moment, said moment slips away into the folds of history, rendering us temporally impotent). Sartre breaks down time in a very Hawking-esque sort of way, self-debating whether past events play a part in determining the nature of our current Being. Dumb question, you say...of course the past "you" was you, just in a different stage, when you were of a different mind. All those moments of your past have created and developed this current "being" that stands today. Well, sure.
However, I think the definition of Self, big S, leans on our assessment of a difficult either/or: “is” or “was?” Are we, at 25, the same people we were at 13? Again, you'd think such a question elicits an easy response, but I'm not so sure, because I'm not referring to flesh and bone. Did the Mike Elwood of present, typing away on this blog, walk to school on Sept. 17, 1996, all those years ago, or was that somebody else entirely, another figure (an idea, almost, and someone completely intangible) taking up that space in time? That guy—the guy who stumbled time and time again, thought of no one but himself, took most everything in his life for granted—was that really me? Was that me committing those embarrassing, regrettable acts? I hope not. I'd like to think it was the work of another. If we wish away painful memories, does that then render them harmless/irrelevant since the act has passed, never again to be repeated (Kundera might have something to say about that, but that's another post)? If there was a way to relieve myself of the ugly people I've "been," life would make more sense.
So I’m supping on Mr. Sartre’s grey matter like the wannabe intellectual I am, nearly forgetting that the two largest women in Crown Heights are threatening my rib cage/vital organs in very serious ways.
We’ve all got demons. I’ve got plenty. My inability to leave past lives—my past selves—behind me ranks as perhaps my most glaring flaw. Being a non-Christian, I know of no receptacle for all this guilt I shoulder. My question: fellow non-Christians, where do you stow your guilt? Where do you lock it all up? I’d really like to know.
Sorry to beat dead horses, but to finally address the question I raised in the is/are debate, I've concluded thusly: I don’t think that was me. That 13-yr-old couldn’t have been me. It's much too difficult for me to entertain thoughts to the contrary. Those choices at 13 (an arbitrary age, but you get the idea) don't align with my current cerebral anatomy in any way. You'll notice I'm employing desperate measures to mentally acquit myself, guilt-ridden chap that I am, but what's a guy to do? My struggle: I’ve got the fattest heart in the world, though somewhere on the timeline that heart got soldered to the poorest decision-making skills this side of, er—let’s just say they’re the worst.
Action and motive coexist in varying stages of perpetual divorce.
Those ten words pretty much sum up my life.
(ed. 9/23. Realized my first stab at it wasn't very clear, so I took a few mins. to clarify some things. I know that defeats the whole concept of "blog," but I'm too OCD to let it sit there in the original state.)
(ed. 4/14/09. Reading over this entry, I'm realizing that it makes no sense at all. Clearly, I'm no philosopher.) ...
Want to hear about my weekend? I stayed up way too late.
On second thought, I’m not going to tell you about my weekend. Instead, I’m going to tell you about my shirt.
Saturday: Artsy warehouse party in Brooklyn. My attire (head to toe): Who tee, long-sleeved shirt with buttons, grey boxer briefs, cargo shorts, brown belt, no-show black socks, black and white skater shoes that I purchased for seventeen dollars and ninety-nine cents at Target. Fore the night was up I sweated through the whole damn getup, even the belt buckle. We danced like this was our very last shot at dancing, as if dancing as we know it would end forever at 5 a.m. Pictures turned out wicked awesome. Lucas’ animistic camera was on acid or something because it snapped up more than a few forehead-slap pixie dust whizbang photos that oughta be bound up proper and made into books for coffee tables.
Lucas (to me): “Dude, you were sponsored by sweat last night.” I was. Upon return to Lucas’ place at 5:30 a.m., fatigued and semi-conscious, I exorcised the offensive article (my navy blue shirt was hit the hardest) with grand disgust and made a ball of it, neatly punching the shirt into a small compartment of my shoulder bag. It must have weighed four or five or nine pounds, like a child.
Sunday, then. Now I’m forced to go with the Who shirt. No other options, really. Can’t run home. We’re already late for a Thurston Moore/Ian MacKaye Q&A at Book Fest. Book Fest was swell. Later we watched one quality short and two lousy ones in a Bushwick film house. Somehow Lucas and I and his friend Kate wound up drinking beer and going out again, this time to a roof on the edge of the East River, where we remained until Too Late. Suddenly I come to and hey wait a second I'm five-deep into the PBR, not my usual Sunday. A mystery, unsolved for damn sure, who put these beers in my hand? After our bi-weekly ritual (pronouncing New York the Greatest City In All The Land, vigorously shaking hands with ourselves for choosing such a swell place to lay our heads at night, sighing dreamily at the skyline), we dragged over to a subway and then we rode it. Then we’re back at Lucas’ again and I haven’t brushed my teeth in 36 hours which is a bummer really and there’s the couch, so I laid on it and went to sleep.
Monday. Wake up. Shower. My towel? The sweat shirt. I actually dried my body with that dishrag, which (I shit you not) was still damp from Saturday night. Then I'm on the L train, wondering where it all went wrong, hygienically speaking. Today I delivered mail to 60 law professors at Fordham University whilst rockin’ a too-small Who t-shirt mired with sweat. Somnambulent from lack of REM, you know how it is.
Alright, guess I ended up rambling a bit—this drivel wasn’t really about a shirt but then it was really—but who cares that kid with the cart and that stupid rock ‘n’ roll t-shirt is a tragicomedy if I’ve ever seen one. And he smells funny. ...
...later, post-college, I spent four summers squatting in a small coastal town overlooking the Pacific and vagabonded about on various systems of public transport (have never owned a car, perhaps I never will), becoming somewhat of an old pro in the process. Trips back to the Motherland involved cab ride to Coos Bay, shuttle bus to Eugene, Greyhound to Portland, flight to O’Hare (often with stopovers) from PDX. Then I’d leave Chicago and do it all over again in reverse, finally halting my travels in earth-toned, awshucks Bandon, Oregon (pictured), where nothing ever happens. Now and again I contracted an extreme case of the Itchy Feet and bussed or trained around the country with very little rhyme and zero reason.
A few memories from my long-haired days:
1) Somehow my Amtrak happened upon Provo of all places at about 3:30 in the morning and a man got on the loudspeaker telling how this is our chance to move about and stretch and smoke, you have twenty minutes. Though I don’t smoke, I followed everybody outside and for a steady while gawked at the enormity of Utah, thinking that everybody should—at some point in their life-journey—ride a train in the night through cities and towns that have never punctured their consciousnesses.
It was frighteningly cold outside. No light at all, save the orange of the cigarettes. Every now and then the ground made gravel sounds when somebody took a step, but that was it. No talking, just puffing. Provo—I couldn’t believe it! After a few minutes people started extinguishing the butts with their toes and we returned to our too-small seats and the wheels stirred and westward again, hey-oh!
2) Came to on an L.A.-bound Greyhound bus from Eugene, OR, which dumped us off without ceremony at high noon Sacramento for three hours of layover. Easily 96 degrees outside, if not 99 or even three numbers. At the time I was toting a guitar like the hippie I was but claimed not to be, and after placing my backpack in a storage locker at the station I moved in a downtownerly direction with instrument in hand, seeking shade so I might sit like an Indian and strum pleasant hippie tunes. After twenty minutes of walking I came upon a park and a nice enough tree, so I leaned back against it and played one of the six songs I knew how to play.
***This next part is going to sound made-up, but it is not.***
An old man approached the tree and began speaking to me. He was very friendly. After asking me all the right questions, he told me about himself. Back in the day, he said, I used to be in a surf-rock band. Whoa! I said. That’s excellent. What band? Swelling with pride, he answered my question with another. Have you heard “Wipeout?” I laughed. Of course. The Surfaris, I have ‘em on my iPod. Was that you? Well, he said, I’m the guy at the beginning who does the laugh. That was me. I’m Dale Smallen. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. I asked him to do the laugh right then and there but he wouldn’t, probably because he can’t make those sounds anymore. I’ll bet those old throat chords wouldn’t have handled something like that very well. After a few more words he left. That evening I Googled Mr. Smallen for purposes of legitimacy, and—sure enough—he's the guy. There was even a picture. I ran into Dale Smallen under a tree in Sacramento. He still receives royalties to this day for laughing once when the mic was on.
3) Then there was the same sort of trip as the Utah one, but backwards. I headed east from Chicago to NYC’s Penn Station on an Amtrak. The trip was supposed to take roughly twenty hours in total (I don’t remember the specifics) but ended up six hours past schedule, for some reason. Amtrak isn’t very reliable. Anyway, this was two years ago during that huge storm New York had, the one that left 22 inches of snow on the ground.
I was visiting New York to meet my friend for a thoroughly unnecessary vacation from reality (a week's stay in Amsterdam, via JFK airport), which was set to commence in three days. I don’t remember much about this train ride except it was terrifically long and there was a young man in my car who claimed to be a singer. He was very outspoken about it. When boredoms set in, a few of the more polite passengers asked him to sing, and sing he did. He busted out a Marvin Gaye meets Boyz II Men sorta thing, oh baby baby yeah get you under my covers, etc., etc. We lapped it up. Free concert aboard an Amtrak train while somewhere up ahead shovelers negotiated with the snow. ...
